


Dalish & Divines

by VespidaeQueen



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gen, Magical Academia, Politics, Regency Romance, Slow Burn Romance, Supernatural Elements, fancy parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 161,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VespidaeQueen/pseuds/VespidaeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon the death of Grand Duchess Justinia Divine, Lady Lavellan inherits Skyhold Manor and believe that her troubles have passed. Yet becoming part of polite society proves to be something of a challenge, particularly when a noble from Tevinter challenges her claim to inheritance.</p><p>And among all the other obstacles thrown in her path, Lavellan finds her attention drawn to a rather poorly dressed artist with far too much knowledge of magic and the past, who may not be exactly who he claims to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Lavellan arrives at Skyhold, new acquaintences are met, and legalities are considered

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: If there is one thing that I enjoy in any fandom, it is a regency AU. This is something to that effect, taking Dragon Age Inquisition and putting it into a regency-esque setting. I say regency-esque because it is more inspired by the genre than being perfectly patterned after it.
> 
> There are several side romances hinted at in the story, though the main pairing Lavellan/Solas. 
> 
> I’ve pulled from several of my favorite narratives for this; I am curious as to whether you can pick out which ones!
> 
> The artwork in the first chapter can be found [here on Tumblr](http://silverchimaera-art.tumblr.com/post/117360770888/since-theres-been-so-much-regency-au-stuff-for-da)
> 
> Note as of 9/7/15: The entirety of this story was written prior to the release of the Trespasser DLC, and as such holds no spoilers and was not influenced by Trespasser at all.

It was a dreary day in early winter, in the wake of the death of Grand Duchess Justinia Divine, that the new owner of Skyhold Manor arrived in town.

Not much was known of the Lady Lavellan, and that mystery made her something of a talking point to the inhabitants of the town. She was - rumor told - a lady of low beginnings who had, upon the untimely death of the Lady Divine, inherited a substantial fortune.

As happens in such cases, there gossip that preceded her was enough to create a characteristic impression. Within the flurry of rumor arose one of particular note - that she was, in some way, connected to the death of Lady Divine.

Lady Lavellan, for her part, was entirely unaware of the social turmoil that her appearance created. She was, after all, preoccupied with her sudden and unexpected inheritance.

Skyhold manor was the oldest holding in Haven, a great stone house on the very edge of town. It was far too large for one person, and Lavellan found herself very much overwhelmed upon entering the foyer.

“This is, without a doubt, the most ostentatious yet most dis-repaired house I have ever seen,” she told the walls of the hall as she stepped over a fallen support. “I suppose I will just have to get used to it.”

*

The Lady Lavellan had barely had time to get comfortable when her first visitors came calling. Had she any familiarity with the inhabitants of Haven, she would have recognized the two women standing at her door at once. As it was, being a foreigner from the north, Lavellan was instead confronted by the unofficial welcoming committee for the town.

Lady Leliana of Nightengale Hall was slender and delicate, a beautiful woman with a shock of red hair. She had the sort of face that painters would love to paint, yet her apparent softness hid the greatest busybody of all of Haven and - as Lavellan would later come to know - she was a three time Nug breeding champion.

Her companion was, in many ways, the opposite to her. Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast had once been described as a woman who “I shit you not, could probably wrestle twenty bears and win” by an anonymous author. She was tall and solid, with the most well defined cheekbones Lavellan had ever seen.

It was in a veritable whirlwind that Lavellan found herself greeted by these two women.

“It is so good to finally meet you!” said Lady Leliana. “I am Leliana and this is Cassandra Pentaghast. You, of course, must be the Lady Lavellan. We have all been very interested in meeting you since we heard you were to move into Skyhold.”

“With Lady Divine dead, we had thought the manor would stand open for some time. She was, of course, well respected and well loved by all who knew her and, until recent events have proven differently, believed to have no heirs.” The manner in which the Lady Cassandra spoke was brusque and this, more so even than her words, alerted Lavellan that this was very much _not_ a pleasant social call.

Now the Lady Lavellan was, by no means, a naive woman. She was, however, quite unfamiliar with various intricacies of Southern society, and even more specifically she did not know of the closeness of both ladies to the Lady Divine. She was, however, quite adept at reading those around her.

“I’m afraid that I did not know the Lady Divine well,” Lavellan said, quite truthfully. “It was not until this week past that I received news of her passing and that I had been left an inheritance. I heard that she was well loved in Haven.”

“She was.” There was a flash of emotion on Leliana’s face, and her voice took on an edge of sweet sharpness. “The sudden appearance of an heir is, quite surprising. Certain steps must be taken to ensure the legitimacy of the claim as you must understand.”

“Of course,” said Lavellan, was struck by the sudden thought that these two women were very, _very_ dangerous. “I would expect nothing less.”

“Wonderful!” Leliana seemed to brighten immeasurably, while Cassandra’s glower only increased. “We will, of course, let you know when arrangements have been made. I am _certain_ they will go smoothly. Now, you simply _must_ dine with us tonight.”

“Ah,” said Lavellan, quite thrown by this sudden change. “Of course?”

“Good.” Cassandra passed her a calling card, which Lavellan accepted with only slight trepidation. “You will find us at the base of the hill in Nightengale Hall. You cannot possibly miss it.”

When the ladies had said their goodbyes, Lavellan closed the door tightly.

“I do believe I have stepped into a highly unpleasant and complicated situation,” she said to absolutely no one. A mouse crawled over the wreckage on the ground and Lavellan sighed.

***

It is true that the inheritance had come very unexpectedly upon Lady Lavellan. It had been all but out of the blue that she had discovered herself to be the heir to three very important things.

The first, of course, was Skyhold Manor itself and all its grounds. Even in the disrepair that she found it in, it was impressive - the sort of place which most could only dream of. The second was a sizeable fortune the likes of which would keep her in comfort for quite some time, and would certainly aid in repairing and refurnishing the manor. And lastly - and in many ways, the most important of all - Lady Lavellan had inherited an heirloom ring.

She could not, of course, know the importance of the ring. An intricately wrought piece, made of silver long tarnished with age and set with an emerald of considerable rarity. When the light hit it properly, it seemed as though lit with its own internal light.

That ring now rested upon Lavellan’s left hand, snug upon her finger, and it had not yet been removed since it was placed there only several days before.

***

Nightengale Hall had been easy enough to find, as Cassandra had said it would be, but upon being received there, Lavellan found herself very much out of her depth. In truth, she had been ill prepared for the South and her move there, and so she wore the same dress which she had worn upon arriving in town.

She was greeted at the door and admitted to the sitting room, only to find herself confronted by yet more people she had not yet met.

“My Lady Lavellan! I am glad to see you have arrived,” said Leliana, taking her arm and leading her forward. “Come, let me introduce you to my dear friends. I am certain you will come to know them well in the weeks to come.”

The two others in the room had risen at her entrance and Lavellan was quickly introduced.

“This is my good friend, Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva. Josephine, this is the Lady Lavellan, newly of Skyhold Manor.” Leliana said as Lavellan delicately shook the hand of one of the most elegant women she had ever seen. Had Leliana not mentioned she was of Antiva, she would have guessed as soon as the woman spoke.

“It is a delight to meet you, Lady Lavellan.” Josephine’s face was bright and open, her hair elaborately braided and bound with only a few delicate curls left free around her face. Her nose was impressively hooked, perfectly placed on her perfect face.

“And this is Commander Cullen Rutherford,” Leliana said, and Lavellan turned her attention to the pale man standing to Josephine’s right.

“Lady Lavellan.” Commander Rutherford bowed over her hand. He was a large man, perhaps as tall as Cassandra, dressed in rich military garb. He had the appearance of a young man worn down by the world; Lavellan thought him to look rather wrung out at the edges, though the scar that adorned the top of his lip was rather attractive in a dashing sort of way.

Josephine took Lavellan’s hand back from the general and drew her to sit next to her upon the couch. “I was so hoping to meet you before too long had passed, Lady Lavellan. Haven has talked of nothing else since your arrival. Tell me, how are you settling in to Skyhold?”

“It is...very vast,” Lavellan said, which was true. “Has it stood empty long?”

“Far too long,” said Cassandra, the first words she had spoken since Lavellan’s arrival. She sat on an adjacent couch, an impressive figure in a suit of black and pink. “It was only one of the Lady Divine’s holdings.”

“I have been told it was quite a sight in its prime,” said Josephine. “But it has fallen in disrepair as of late; it fell out of use when the house of Divine moved to Val Royeaux some decades before. I hear they used it for a summer retreat for some years, but it has stood empty for quite awhile. I am somewhat surprised to see that it was the first part of her vast fortune to be distributed was Skyhold.”

Lavellan’s brows drew together with no little confusion. “The first part?”

“It is a very complicated situation,” said Josephine, with the air of someone who enjoys such complicated situations. “The Lady Divine was very wealthy and very well connected -”

“And well loved,” Cassandra added from her seat, arching her perfect brows.

“- and well loved. But she had no direct heir, you see. It is a very intricate legal situation, determining where her assets will go.”

“Thus the surprise to see Skyhold so soon go to me.”

Josephine inclined her head. “Just so. Forgive me for asking, but are you of relation to the Grand Duchess?”

“Distantly, it would seem. Why do you ask?”

“It is just that you look as though you are dalish, and that could complicate such a connection.”

Lavellan’s back straightened. “I _am_ dalish,” she said calmly. “Surely that does not invalidate my claim to the inheritance. I can assure you, it is a legitimate claim.”

“So it would seem,” said Cassandra, her voice cool. “But it remains to be verified.”

“There is also the matter of the mysterious manner of her death.” The Commanders’s voice cut almost awkwardly into the conversation, and Lavellan’s attention was drawn to him. “It was unexpected and abrupt.”

Lavellan felt her mouth dry. “Do you suspect foul play, Commander?”

Cullen met her eye, and Lavellan had the distinct impression that this was not so much a dinner as an interrogation. “I have not ruled it out, my lady. That magic had a hand in her death, I have little doubt.”

The awkwardness of that exchange permeated the silence in the room until Leliana spoke. “I do believe we are summoned to dinner. Come, the dining room is this way.”

It was, without a doubt, the most tensely charged dinner she had ever been to. The sense of unease among the dinner guests only grew, and by the time dessert had been served and she had said her goodbyes, Lavellan had an excellent idea of what she was under suspicion for.

It was reasonable, she decided, that they thought her involved. The situation was entirely more complicated than she had initially presumed, and that made things infinitely more difficult.

That Commander Rutherford suspected magic in the death of Lady Divine only made it that much worse for Lavellan herself was, in fact, a mage.

***

Magic was a complicated subject, for which Lavellan was infinitely grateful to have been raised outside of Southern society for. It was not, as a general rule, spoken of openly within polite society, unless it was in the context of the most academic of studies. A good, proper mage was one who was part of the College - educated, supervised, working within the acceptable parameters for scientific and magical study. A mage who had learned outside of this context was generally not accepted and were, as another general rule, considered a danger to society.

The further north one went, the more lax the rules became. Or, rather, once you hit the end of one particular territory, the rules changed entirely. Twice over, in fact, depending on how far one went. The empire of Tevinter was known for its rigorous magical studies and their college was a great academic rival to that of the south; with less rules to regulate the movement of mages within proper society, their techniques were quite often vastly different and more innovative and, if one were to believe the rumors, vastly superior.

Even further north was a place no mage would wish to tread, for magic was even less well regarded than in the south.

Lavellan was not one for social graces or politics, but she did know something of the magical reforms that politicians had been attempting to pass for several years. It was a move with high stakes, and she had heard of the career of more than one politician having been ruined over it.

Grand Duchess Justinia Divine had been at the heart of it, or had been the hope of both sides. With her political sway, social standing, and wealth, she could have turned the proceedings either way.

To die as she had, presumably at the hand of a mage and with court still in session over the most recent reform attempt, was a very bad thing indeed.

***

That first night in Skyhold was, in many ways, an unpleasant one. Lavellan had already been in a state near to anxiety when leaving Nightengale Hall, torn between a desire to run down to the courthouse and have the document stating her inheritance verified and the desire to run all the way home to Wycome.

Of course, going home was not an option, and she could hardly leave in the middle of the night in any case.

Had she been, in truth, a highborn lady, she might have found some other place to stay for the night. Skyhold was in desperate need of repair and had not seen inhabitants in many ears. Nevertheless, Lavellan settled down for the night on a long abandoned bed under her own well-worn blankets and attempted to sleep.

Sleep, however, was not easily forthcoming. She tossed and she turned for hours, jumping at every hush of wind that rushed through the house, brought in through the cracks in the roof and the broken windows. The floorboards creaked and the bones of the house strained in the winter wind.

Eventually, curled beneath her blankets, Lavellan drifted into something resembling a light sleep, but it was then that she would swear words filled that hush of wind, that the breath of the house turned to speech.

It seemed to her, as the hour crept later and the shadows became ever deeper, that there was a sense of something _alive_ in the house. She could not place it, other than the strangest sense that coiled in her stomach, but if someone were to have asked her in that moment, she would have told them that there was another person in the house with her.

But when she rose to check, when she traced each room with a flame in her hand, she found no one.

***

It was not that Lavellan was traveling alone, only that she had chosen to travel ahead of her companions when coming to Skyhold. Her inheritance had been a sudden, unexpected thing, and there had not been time enough to put everything in order, but she had thought that her presence at the manor in a timely fashion would be well warranted.

She had not at all been prepared. Not for the south, not for the suspicion. She was, after only one day, quite overwhelmed.

The manor was large and drafty, though Lavellan was, in truth, used to much worse in much smaller houses. Skyhold might have been a relic, but it was the sort that was impressive even in its ruin. But the unease from the night before was still fresh in her mind. She mulled it over as she sat in the kitchen, taking her breakfast.

“It was only a silly dream,” she said to herself as she sipped a cup of tea. “And the unfamiliarity of a new home. I dare say I will sleep better once I have explored every room twice over.”

She was all set to do just that when there was a knock upon the door. Lavellan answered it, expecting some new arrival who would yet again remark upon the suspicious nature of her inheritance. Instead, she was greeted by a familiar, welcome face.

Cremisius Aclassi was, by all accounts, a good person to have on ones side. He was a handsome man who was from even further north than Lavellan herself, and when she had met him several years earlier it had been a stroke of luck for both. Krem had, at that time, had the sort of contacts she was in need of, and Lavellan had been _quite_ in need.

“You’ve got yourself quite a run-down mansion here,” was the first thing Krem said to her when she let him in to her new home. “Begging your pardon, but this is a piece of work.”

“Of that I am _well_ aware,” said Lavellan, who had already explored the stable parts of the very large manor and had found more walls in poor repair, more than one hole in the roof, and a family of nugs living in the basement. “If I had known it would be quite this bad, I might have waited longer. I should have arranged for a housekeeper before arriving here, at the very least. Oh, and did you know that I am suspected to have killed Grand Duchess Divine?”

Krem’s eyebrows shot up at that. “That’s quite a charge. They come right out and say that?”

Lavellan sighed heavily. “Oh, well, _no_. But it was _quite_ implied, and I had to stay through an entire dinner with the people who implied it. I feel I should have stayed in Wycome.”

“Aw, don’t say that. You’d have been miserable in Wycome, we all knew it. Besides, if you’d stayed in Wycome you would have never inherited such a wreck.”

Her laughter was bright.“ _Ha_. Ha. Well. Do you have any advice? Because I feel I could use some right about now.”

Krem shrugged. “Don’t admit to anything? Don’t you worry, we’ll get this all sorted out. The boss and the rest will be here by the end of the week. We’ll get this place cleaned right up and keep everything off your back. Keep your head on straight and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Lavellan gave the sort of relieved sigh that one gives when they know they have someone who is on their side _at_ their side. “Thank you for that, Krem. I was beginning to get a little panicked over this entire thing. Come, let me show you the house. After that, I think it’s about time that I head down to the courthouse and sort out all of the legalities of this once and for all.”

And so before the sun had risen too high into the sky, Lavellan donned her coat and set off down the hill into the heart of Haven.

She had not gotten the best look at the town upon arriving the day before. Haven was a reasonably sized town with a particular look to it. It was an old town that had been made new in recent years, smartly constructed modern houses set betwixt old stonemasoned buildings that were weathered by the years.

There was a suspicion in the air as Lavellan walked through the streets, and she quickly realized that there must already be gossip surrounding her. Either those she had dined with the night before had made their opinions on her known, or it was simply a common opinion.

Grand Duchess Divine had been well loved, or so Leliana had said.

Lavellan was very quick to realize that she had no idea _where_ to find the courthouse, and with no kind face in sight to ask, she was quite beside herself. Still, she was not known to give up easily, and so she gathered up her skirts and began a very deliberate route around Haven. If she could not find it in one quarter, she could certainly find it in _another_.

She sensed her approach before she saw her; the woman simply had that sort of presence. The click of riding boots upon stone and the general sense that an unstoppable force was heading towards her. She wheeled around at the last moment to find herself face to chest with Cassandra Pentaghast.

“Lady Pentaghast!” Lavellan rocked back onto her heels, steadying herself. Cassandra was as imposing as she had been on their last two meetings, smartly dressed in well cut and tailored coat, black and stark save for a cravat in a rich salmon color tied at her throat.

A noise of disgust welled up in the woman’s throat. “ _Cassandra_ , if you must. I am not one for ceremony. I see that you have taken it upon yourself to explore Haven.”

Lavellan straightened up, swallowing down the anxiety of being out of sorts and uncertain of herself within these new circumstances. “I was, in fact, in search of the courthouse. Perhaps you could show me the way?”

Cassandra regarded her for a long moment in silence, until Lavellan began to feel all the weight of the accusatory stares of the townsfolk return tenfold.

“Tell me, what are you in need of the courthouse for?”

Once more, Lavellan straightened, head tipped up to meet Cassandra’s gaze. “It has not escaped my notice that you are very suspicious of me. While I can assure you that I had nothing to do with the death of Grand Duchess Divine and that my claim to Skyhold is legitimate, I feel that it is best to confirm all of this through legal channels. If you would care to accompany me, it could do much to either set your mind at ease or prove to you that I am false.”

A muscle twitched in Cassandra’s jaw, but it was followed swiftly by a curt nod. “I will show you the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not think this means that I trust you,” Cassandra reminded her as her long legs carried her past Lavellan; she increased her pace to keep up. “You arrive out of nowhere, with no apparent means of connection to the Divine, to take up residence in her house, wearing her _ring_. Do not think I have not noticed what is on your hand, Miss Lavellan.”

Lavellan raised her hand slightly, looking down to where the heirloom ring rested upon her finger. “This ring? It was part of my inheritance.”

“Do not toy with me, Miss Lavellan.”

“I’m _not_. I swear to you, once we are at the courthouse, all of this will be confirmed or denied.”

They turned a sharp corner to walk down a wide street. There were less people here, the street empty save for two men who sat outside a shop, engaged in deep discussion. As they rounded the corner, one of them looked up.

“Ah, Seeker! What a pleasant surprise.” He was a short man with ruddy skin and dirty blond hair. Short even while sitting, he had the sort of wide shoulders and barrel chest that gave him a good, solid appearance. Lavellan thought he would be far shorter than herself if he were to stand.

“ _Varric_ ,” said Cassandra, in the sort of tone that spoke of a history that was not as pleasant as the man’s greeting suggested.

Lavellan could not know of the tumultuous relationship between one Cassandra Pentaghast and one Varric of House Tethras. Indeed, the name _Varric_ was not familiar to her in that moment, and what Lavellan took from this short exchange was that, perhaps, there was someone Cassandra disliked more than her.

“And who is this lovely lady?” he asked. Closer now, Lavellan could see sheaves of paper on the table, covered in print.

“ _This_ is Lavellan, lately of Wycome,” Cassandra told him. Varric’s look took on a new edge of interest.

“ _The_ Lavellan? _The_ Lavellan, now of Skyhold?”

“Yes, _that_ Lavellan.”

Varric’s companion had since turned to look at her as well, and Lavellan was struck by the shabbiness of this man. While Varric’s coat was not of the greatest quality - a large thing of oiled leather - he wore a vibrant shirt of red embroidered in what looked to be gold thread. This man, in contrast, looked to be wearing a coat and suit of outdated fashion, patched several times over in a hand that was prone to large stitches, even if they were very uniformly made. He wore a cap on his head, the neckline of a coarsely knit shirt poking out from under his patchwork coat.

He rose from his seat and extended a hand. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” he said, his words spoken in a familiar accent.

“You are dalish!” Lavellan said with some startlement as their hands met. “I did not think to meet another here!”

The man bristled. “I do not count myself among the dalish,” he said briskly. “Nevertheless, it is good to make your acquaintance, Miss Lavellan.”

“Yours as well,” she said, though there was a sense of unease to the meeting. For a moment, she attributed it to her misstep, but then she realized that he had taken her left hand instead of her right.

It took her a moment longer to realize that he was examining the ring upon her finger, and it was then that she snatched her hand away.

“That ring,” he said then, as though there was nothing amiss. “I have never seen anything of its like. It looks to be very old.”

“It was the late Divine’s,” said Cassandra curtly, and Solas looked to her with a solemn look of understanding on his face.

“Ah. That would explain it. Such a piece must have been passed down through generations.”

“Undoubtedly.” Lavellan resisted the urge to clasp the ring to her chest. “And while I would love to discuss this more thoroughly, we were on our way to the courthouse.”

Varric looked to Cassandra. “Your idea, Seeker? Making sure everything’s in legal order? You watch out for this one, Miss Lavellan; she does like to know the _whole_ story before she’s satisfied.”

“That will be enough, _Varric_.”

“We’ll take our leave then. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr...Varric. And...Solas,” she said, realizing she did not, at that moment, know either of their last names.

“A pleasure, Miss Lavellan,” said Solas, and she thought - though with some uncertainty - that his gaze briefly dropped to the ring once more.

It was with some unease that Lavellan followed Cassandra down the street. She did not look back.

“He is an author.”

Cassandra’s voice was unexpected and Lavellan startled. “What?”

“Varric Tethras. He is an _author_ ,” said Cassandra, as though it was either obvious or something to be disgusted with. “He is also the head of his family, but you would not know it to hear him talk.”

This was, to Lavellan, of incredible interest. “What does he write?”

Cassandra made a noise of disgust. “Utter _tripe_. Serial crime novels and romances. The sort of reading that one does not admit to reading in public company.”

“Do _you_ read them?”

The glare Cassandra leveled at her told her everything she needed to know.

“And, ah, what of that other man?”

“Solas? He is an artist. A painter, so I am told, though I have not yet seen his work. He has only recently come to Haven, for _inspiration_ or something of that measure.”

“ _Ah._ ”

An artist. That could explain...something. Lavellan pursed her lips and said no more on the matter. The palm of her hand itched slightly in memory of his touch.

They reached the courthouse before long, and upon entering the large stone building, Lavellan realized that she had already met the person who would be verifying her claims to inheritance.

“Hello, Josephine,” Cassandra said, and the woman Lavellan had met at dinner the night before look up from her paperwork to smile at them.

“Cassandra! And...Lady Lavellan! This is fortunate; I was intending to send a missive to you today.”

“Were you?” For just a moment, uncertainty reared its head, but then she straightened her spine and set her jaw and stepped forward. “I imagine I am here for similar reasons. I intend to verify that my claim to Skyhold manor and all holdings is legitimate.”

She pulled an envelope from her coat pocket and offered it to Josephine. The woman took it, carefully unfolding the paper.

“Ah,” she breathed, eyebrows rising dramatically as she read. “I see. If you could give me a moment?” She made as though to rise.

“I would prefer not to lose sight of that, if you don’t mind,” Lavellan said, and there was a pause before Josephine nodded and she passed the papers back to her.

“If you will excuse me for a just a moment. I have documents here which will allow me to verify if these are, in fact, written by the Grand Duchess Divine.”

Cassandra turned to Lavellan as Josephine disappeared into an adjoining room. “You carried a letter from the Divine and you did not say as much?”

“Would you have believed me if I said I did?” Lavellan looked at her skeptically. “You believe me somehow involved in her death. I am not fully ignorant of the politics of the south, Cassandra. I felt it best to bring this up before someone of legal standing before divulging that I held it. I, of course, did not realize that it would be Lady Montilyet who I needed to speak to, though I hardly thing discussing this over dinner would have been appropriate.”

“Perhaps not at a first dinner with new acquaintences,” Cassandra conceded. She paused for a moment. “I trust Josephine implicitly; she is fair and impartial in matters of law. If this document proves to be legitimate, then I will believe you. If it does not…”

Lavellan wagered a smile. “As I said, I am not fully ignorant of the south. If this proves false, I fully anticipate being thrown into prison, or worse. But it is not false.”

“You seem very confident.” There was a touch of wonder in Cassandra’s voice.

“I am.”

When Josephine returned to the room, Lavellan passed the letter back to her. And then she stood there, waiting, as Josephine examined the paper. Cassandra stood beside her, and while Lavellan’s feet and back began to ache from standing on the hard floor, she did not move or sit down. Neither did she speak.

Eventually, after more time than Lavellan cared to recount, Josephine looked up. Her eyes fell to Lavellan first, then to Cassandra.

“This is, indeed, the writing of Justinia Divine, and a legally binding document. It appears that, in the hours before her death, Grand Duchess Divine willed Skyhold, a portion of her fortune, and, of particular note, one emerald ring. To be given to Lavellan of Wycome upon the Divine’s death, with this document to supersede any and all other legal wills.”

Cassandra’s expression was that of utter surprise. “ _What?_ ”

Josephine held up her hand. “Please, Cassandra. Let me read this; it will set your mind at ease, I think.

 

 

 

> “ _I write this letter in my last hours, of clear mind and with full consent. My holding of Skyhold and all lands and funds associated with it I give to Lavellan of Wycome, my protector at the end of my life. I also give her the emerald ring, heirloom of my house, which should rest upon her hand should this be read. May she know its use better than I._
> 
> _This I do sign, legally and binding, and no party may take ownership of any of the aforementioned items without written permission and consent from Lavellan of Wycome._
> 
> _Grand Duchess Justinia Divine_
> 
>  

“It is dated the day of her death,” Josephine said. “It appears that she thought very highly of you, Lady Lavellan.”

Cassandra had turned to look to Lavellan, the surprise on her face, if possible, even greater. “Her _protector?_ ”

And here, Lavellan could have lied. Quite easily; no one would have known the difference, and the document, being proved to be true, had guaranteed that she would be allowed to remain in Skyhold Manor. But Lavellan was not of a duplicitous nature, though she was cautious.

“I do not know what she meant by that,” Lavellan said softly. “I have read that letter many times, since it came into my possession, but I cannot understand what she meant by that, or what she meant by referencing the use of the ring.

The look Cassandra gave her was, at first, disbelieving. But then something went out of it; she seemed to deflate, almost, and for a moment Lavellan felt she could see the grieving woman behind all her iron.

“She was often cryptic,” she said. “But she believed you to be her protector. Josephine believes this letter to be legitimate. In her last hours, the Divine thought of you in kindness, and that must count for something indeed.

“I hope so,” said Lavellan, who was not certain that it did.

***

Here is what Lavellan did not tell to Cassandra or Josephine, though her words may have hinted at it:

Those last hours of life, before the Divine died, were hours that Lavellan could not remember. She thought that she had met the Duchess - she _must_ have, at some point - but she could not remember. There is a great gap in her memories that ends with her waking to find a ring sitting upon her finger, gleaming green like there is fire caught inside.

A ring upon her finger and a letter in her pocket, and she does not know how either got there.

 


	2. In which Lavellan attends a party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the behest of Lady Montilyet, Lady Lavellan attends a party.

It was not even a day later that a letter in a neatly embossed envelope arrived via messenger to Lavellan’s door. She accepted it graciously and read it before the fire.

“It says here that Lady Montilyet is to have a party tomorrow evening and that I am invited.” She looked up Krem, who was sitting in the one good armchair drinking tea. There was surprise written upon her face, but given what had occurred the day before, this was not completely unwarranted. “I am completely out of my depth here.”

“Don’t look at me, ma’am. I don’t know southern parties any better than you.”

Lavellan pursed her lips and tapped the edge of the paper against them. “This. Is a problem. I have a dress, and I suppose I could fake being high society. It seems as though Josephine and Cassandra - and, hopefully by extensions, Leliana and Commander Rutherford - no longer consider me some sort of threat. It would be remiss of me not to make an appearance; perhaps it would do something to start to make a good name for myself around Haven. But I am...not...Krem. would you - _could_ you - possibly attend with me? I would feel less afloat if I had you watching my back.”

Krem gave a long suffering sigh. “If the boss was here, you’d try to talk him into doing this, wouldn’t you.”

“Yes. But he _isn’t_ here.”

In the end, Krem agreed and the next evening the two of them set off down the hillside to the residence of Lady Montilyet. Both dressed in their best, though as Lavellan’s belonging had not yet been brought to Skyhold she had but a single dress to change into aside from the one she had worn to travel. It was one in a very nice shade of cream, in what she hoped was a decent enough fashion for the evening. Her tightly curled dark hair she arranged as best she could, and when she looked at her reflection in the mirror she was very pleased with what she saw.

Krem looked very fine himself in a well fitted coat, a cravat wrapped neatly around his neck. He did, however, not look particularly pleased to be attending the party, a sentiment which Lavellan shared.

It was, however, much preferable to attend a party with someone else who did not want to be there than to attend by oneself.

And Krem _was_ a dear friend, as was the rest of his company - who she hoped would be arriving soon to Skyhold. Between the two of them, they could manage in this sort of situation.

It was to a rush of sound and color that they entered Josephine’s estate. It was obvious from the first moment that Josephine, quite apart from knowing the intricacies of law, knew just as well how to throw a party.

Lavellan felt entirely under dressed and completely out of her element. But she had known it would be this way upon coming to the south; no more was she in her home where there were more trees than houses, and she could not expect to hide away from the hustle and bustle of society.

She steeled herself and - ignoring the first whispers that hit her ears - entered the party.

It took a moment to locate Josephine, but she found her by the sound of her laugh. As she approached, Krem on her arm, she caught Josephine’s eye and the woman smiled brightly.

“Lady Lavellan!” she said, voice pitched loud, sweeping forward across the floor. She was resplendent in blue and gold, her hair piled high and pinned. Heads turned, and Lavellan felt instantly put on the spot. But then Josephine reached her, grasped her hands in her own, and greeted her with such warmth that she was momentarily stunned. “I had hoped that you would come! And what a beautiful dress! Please, introduce me to your companion.”

“Ah.” Lavellan swallowed and then allowed a smile to turn up the corners of her mouth. “Lady Montilyet, allow me to introduce Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi.”

“Delighted,” Krem said, taking Josephine’s hand and bowing over it.

“I am equally delighted to meet a friend of Lady Lavellan. Now, come, you simply _must_ make the rounds with me. I have so many people I would like you to meet! And you must come as well, Mr. Aclassi.”

Krem inclined his head towards Lavellan, and she could read his expression quite well. This was the sort of luck that she needed, to make it through a night such as this.

Josephine knew it as well. She took Lavellan’s arm through her own and leaned in to whisper to her as they walked through the throngs of people. “We have such damage control to do, as I am certain you know. Rumor can be more deadly than the truth, and there was much rumor spread upon your arrival in Haven. But we simply have to have you seen with the proper people, create the right connections, and that will disappear almost over night.”

“Almost overnight? That seems fast.”

“That is how gossip works, Lady Lavellan. Now, you have already met the Commander and Leliana, but it will do you only favors to be seen talking to them. If there is _one_ person who you simply must meet tonight, however, it would be Lady Giselle.”

“Lady Giselle?”

Josephine nodded. “She was a contemporary of Grand Duchess Divine and held similar - if considerably less - influence. If you are seen talking to her, it will do wonders.”

“I see.”

“But first - Commander! Commander Rutherford, I see you sulking in the corner over there, do be a dear and come greet our guest!”

The man who Lavellan had met only nights before peeled himself out from the edge of the floor. “Josephine, you know that I am - excuse me, sir - _not_ the most comfortable at events like these. I’m only here because - ah, Miss - I mean Lady - Lavellan. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Commander Rutherford.” She dipped into a shallow curtsy. “If it makes you feel better, these sort of events aren’t exactly my thing, either.”

“Oh, come now, do not be so dour about this!” Leliana swept up to them, and her manner was so much removed from how it had been when Lavellan first met her. “It is a party! You are supposed to be having fun. Commander, ask the good woman to dance.”

“Ah -”

“That’s all right, really,” Lavellan said hastily.

“Would you?”

“What?”

Lavellan was not used to seeing men blush in the manner that the Commander was, but there he was, red as a beet, hand extended towards her. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his and allowing him to pull her onto the dance floor. Behind her, she heard Leliana’s voice and Krem’s laugh before they followed them out as well.

***

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Krem said as they stood on the edge of the room sometime later, drinks in hand. “Not the worst job I’ve been on, that’s for sure.”

“You can add it to your list of stories. You can tell Bull how he missed me nearly falling on my face while dancing.”

“You didn’t, though. You only need a bit more practice, as does the Commander.” Krem sipped at his drink while he looked out over the crowded room. “You would think that Lady Montilyet had invited the whole town, from how many people are here.”

“Surely not. I haven’t seen - oh! There’s Mr. Tethras! I met him yesterday.” She idly wondered if his companion had come as well. _Surely_ not, to echo herself. He had not seemed the sort to attend such a function.

“ _The_ Mr. Tethras?” Krem said with some surprise. “I didn’t know he lived in Haven!”

Lavellan frowned up at him. “You know him?”

“I know his work. Fantastic writer. He really captures the... _essence_ of being a guard.” Krem’s eyes were still scanning the crowd, seeming to be searching for something. “And - I -” He raised his glass to his mouth and missed in the most spectacular manner, mashing it against his nose instead.

“Krem! You’re dripping - _what_ are you looking at?”

He had the most faraway expression that she had ever seen on his face. Lavellan popped herself up on her tiptoes to try to see what he was looking at, but she was far too short to see over the crowd.

“Excuse me, I’m going to -”

“Oh give me that,” she said, delicately plucking the glass from his hand before he absently spilled more over himself. “Honestly, your nose isn’t even in the same vicinity as your mouth. Yes, do go have fun! Please don’t disappear completely!” she called to his back as he cut his way across the room. For a moment, she thought she saw who he was heading towards, but then the next dance began and swallowed up all save for a brief flash of a patterned dress.

With that, Lavellan settled back into a chair, two glasses in hand. She was, to her surprise, having quite a good time. The south, with all its politics and social rules, was not _quite_ as bad as she had initially assumed. It was no replacement for Wycome and the Free Marches, but still...after those first two days and those first awkward meetings, she had a strong sense that things were about to turn around.

A simple letter proven to be true, a simple word - _protector_ \- and Lavellan had found herself with several new - friends was not the word, not yet - allies.

She sat for sometime, watching the goings on of the party, when a voice startled her from her thoughts.

“I had not thought to find the new lady of Skyhold sitting alone.”

She nearly jumped, thought kept herself still. Only a tremor that ran through the liquid in both of the glasses she held betrayed her surprise. “I - oh. It is you.”

She did not mean for it to come out so bluntly, but it did. She was, in a manner, surprised. To see him here, when she had not anticipated it. And to see him dressed as he was was -

Also a surprise.

Mr. Solas did not seem to fit a function such as this, even cleaned up as he was. The hat he had worn when she first met him was gone, showing that he was quite without hair, and she saw more clearly that there was the lightest speckling of freckles across his skin, along with scattered signs of age - the barest creases of his skin at his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

He still seemed as though he had not got his head grasped around the fashions of the day, though his suit was less patchwork than the coat he had worn the day before.

“I seem to have too many drinks,” she said, instead of anything else she could have attempted. “Would you care for one?”

His eyebrows rose, the barest twitch of a smile on his mouth. But he accepted the full glass she passed to him, and Lavellan kept Krem’s half empty glass for herself.

“Thank you,” he said, and then, without prompting, took the chair adjacent to her. It was good; he no longer towered over her as she sat there by herself. “How are you enjoying your first of Lady Montilyet’s parties?”

Lavellan’s brow wrinkled in confusion that he had decided to seek her out, but she settled back comfortably in her chair, drink in her left hand. “I like it well enough,” she said easily. “It is certainly more interesting than sitting around in a ruined manor by myself.”

“And how is Skyhold? I have long seen it from afar, but never from within.”

Lavellan sighed. “Oh, well. It is certainly more impressive from the outside. It is in dire need of repair.”

“It has sat alone for many years. The Grand Duchess Divine did not know what it was that she possessed.” Mr. Solas’s tone was even and measured; he raised the glass to his mouth and sipped at it slowly. “I have seen many places like it; ruins long abandoned, the thrones of kings kept empty. Time steals much.”

Lavellan twisted the stem of her glass in her hand; there was a clink as it tapped against the metal of her ring. “Are you saying that Skyhold once held a king? If it did, perhaps I should be looking for a throne among all the mess.”

“I couldn’t say. But it is far more than simply a manor once owned by the House of Divine.”

Lavellan wrinkled her nose at this cryptic remark. “Most places have history, if they are old enough. I would do well to know some of the history of Skyhold, however, since I live there now.” She tapped her finger against the glass and it chimed softly as the ring hit it once more.

The sound, soft as it was, seemed to draw Mr. Solas’s gaze. His head tipped ever so slightly to the side. “I believe that ring you wear is much more than it appears to be, as well.”

Lavellan stilled. “Really.”

“Such things are relics. I have seen things of ages past which hold the memories of what was. What you wear bears the stamp of magic, if I am not mistaken.”

For a moment, he looked at her and she at him. Then, slowly, she lowered her glass to her lap and leaned closer to him.

“And how would you know that it is magic?” she said softly. “Most could not see magic that is not bright and shining. I know of two types of people who can, and you do not strike me as a wielder of a knight’s blade.”

Again, his mouth curved into a smile. “That is correct. But it is not only those who wear the emblem of a sword who can sense magic.”

Lavellan swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Cassandra said that you were a painter,” she managed, but her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass until she thought it might break.

“It is rare in this world that you will find someone who is one thing only,” Mr. Solas said. “Would you define yourself only by your dalish blood? Or Cassandra by the cut of her jaw and cheekbones? There is far more to a person than what is revealed upon first impressions.”

“And what,” she asked, again her voice soft yet deliberate, “was your first impression of me?”

He opened his mouth as though to speak, but Lavellan never learned what it was that he had to say. Varric Tethras had, it seemed, been looking for the artist - he arrived before them and his simple presence seemed to cut off whatever it was that Mr. Solas meant to say.

“ _There_ you are, Chuckles. I was wondering what corner you were hiding in. Miss Lavellan.” He bobbed a bow. “I see Cassandra didn’t eat you alive.”

“No, she didn’t.” Again, Lavellan wondered at the history between the two of them, but did not think now a proper time to ask. “She did tell me something of you, Mr. Tethras.”

“ _Did_ she? Is it too much to hope that it was a glorious ode to my chest hair, or perhaps she regaled you with mention of my greatest work, _The Tale of the Champion_? No?”

“No,” Lavellan confirmed, and at that she did allow her eyes to drop down to see that, yes, the man had eschewed conventional fashion and displayed his chest hair for all to see. It _was_ quite impressive. “She did mention that you were a writer, though perhaps I shouldn’t repeat what she said.”

Varric made a noise of disgust that was, in fact, reminiscent of the sound Lavellan had heard Cassandra make on occasion. “No sense of what constitutes a good story. She wounds me.” He placed a hand over his heart in mock agony. “It is a good thing that I do not write to impress her. Now, tell me - are you enjoying the night, or has Chuckles here bored you beyond tears yet?”

Mr. Solas’s response to that was a scoffing laugh, but Lavellan smiled. “Indeed, he has not. He was just telling me some fascinating history of this area.”

“He would. Though the night is winding down, and I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of a dance yet. Unless…?” Mr. Tethras angled a glance towards Mr. Solas, but the man drew back.

“No. By all means, Mr. Tethras.”

It was in a not too subtle manner that Mr. Tethras then rolled his eyes at Mr. Solas, before offering his hand to Lavellan. She set her glass down, rose from her seat, and followed him out onto the floor without a backwards glance.

Lavellan had not danced with a partner shorter than herself before, and her earlier trepidation about not knowing the steps as well as she ought came rushing back. To her delight, however, Varric Tethras was the sort of lead who knew how best to show off his partner. A steady hand kept her from tripping and made the steps seem all the more natural.

As they danced, Lavellan found her attention drifting back to the corner where Solas sat. He had - or so it seemed from here - the most dour of expressions on his face. He did not seem as though he was enjoying being at the party one bit.

Or perhaps his face naturally did not conform into such expressions, she thought. She wondered why he was here at all. Surely an artist who did not seem to have the means to wear anything in a fashion newer than ten years would not be of social standing to be asked to attend a party such as this.

Her curiosity got the better of her before too long and she asked the question of Mr. Tethras - though not in the same words. She received a chuckle for her efforts.

“Him? He’s a friend of Cassandra, and I’ve heard that Lady Montilyet likes his stories - can’t see why, they’re too boring for me.” Mr. Tethras steered Lavellan through a turn. “Not enough drama. But you make connections like that and you get invited to all the parties. Still, Chuckles normally wouldn’t be at one of these things if I didn’t drag him along. I’ve got too many friends like him - always too caught up in their work to go out and have a proper social evening.”

“Friends like him? Do you mean other artists?”

Mr. Tethras laughed. “You could say that. But you know, Chuckles surprised me tonight. Said he _wanted_ to come. Can’t imagine what got into him.”

“Huh.” It wasn’t a true concern for her, and she supposed she had gotten her answer as to why he was there in the first place. But as Mr. Tethras spun her around once her, her eyes fell on the chairs in the corner and saw that Mr. Solas was no longer there.

***

Krem was uncharacteristically silent on the coach ride back up to Skyhold, but Lavellan did not press him. She, too, was mulling over the night in her head. But her feet hurt and her back ached from dancing, and she was more than ready to return to what was now her home.

In the few days since she had arrived, a few improvements had been made to the manor. Not large ones; those would wait until Bull and his company arrived. But the bedding in the master room had been replaced and a room had been made up for Krem, and so with barely a word passed between the two of them they each headed off to bed.

Lavellan sat by a cracked vanity and pulled pins from her hair, threading her fingers through the coarse curls. She felt oddly elevated by the evening, like a turning point had been reached. And it had, she supposed. The demeanor of her acquaintances had changed for the better, and she dearly hoped that it would have the effect Josephine posited that it would.

As she shook out her hair, looking into the mirror warped with age, she thought that she saw a flicker in the corner. Something like a face that was not her own, just at her shoulder, distorted by a break in the glass.

Lavellan swung around, her heart racing. The magic she had kept tightly wrapped since arriving in Haven flew to her fingertips; the room froze over, turning to crystal and ice.

But there was nothing there, just a whisper that lingered in the night air.

“I am overtired, I think,” she said, aloud, as though to convince herself that she had seen nothing.

But she knew magic, and she knew that it could do the most unexpected things, and she did not sleep easy that night.


	3. In which old friends arrive, new friends are made, and Lavellan has a chance meeting in the forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Haven takes a turn for the better for Lavellan. Several chance meetings of great importance are had, and she finds herself generally surprised by the inhabitants of the town.

One of the many remarkable things about Lady Josephine Montilyet was that she had an unparalleled sense of how to change people’s minds.

Upon taking her daily walk into town the very next day, Lavellan was stunned to find the demeanor of almost the entire town had changed. Instead of suspicious glances she was met with smiles, and she found her own mood much brightened because of this.

She had not slept much at all the night before, and had the wrung out, stretched feeling of one who has gotten too little sleep for too many nights in a row. But to see that things had gotten better overnight was simply astounding, and Lavellan decided then and there that the first thing she would do upon getting the manor into some semblance of order would be to invite Josephine over.

She had been making a list for some time now, since seeing the manor. There were so many things to do, and to be perfectly honest she did not have the knowledge of how to accomplish many of them. Things had not been like this in Wycome; there had been no great halls in need of new trappings, no dining rooms in need of chairs, no need for cooks and groundskeepers and stable masters. Things had been so much simpler in Wycome.

But  _simple_  was behind her now, and so that day, feeling more confident than she had the day before, her task was to find someone to tend to her grounds and stables.

Sadly, she did not know the first thing about inquiring into such things.

She dithered in the streets, torn between who she should think to ask. Josephine came to mind first, but she had already done her such a kindness that to ask more of her so soon felt wrong. Cassandra, perhaps?

Help on this matter, however, came in the most unexpected manner.

In walking down the street, too lost in thought, Lavellan walked right in to another person, who was, in equal measure, not watching where they were going. One moment she was upright, the next she was off balance and it was only her quick reflexes that kept herself on her feet.

“Oh!” came a voice from somewhere around chest height. “That was incredibly clumsy of me. Very sorry, miss.”

Lavellan looked down to see a petite woman who came no higher than to her clavicle. She was dressed very simply, her red hair bound back into a braid and tucked under again. The skin of her face was dusted with such a collection of freckles, and her eyes were bright and chipper.

“I think that was my fault,” Lavellan said, and then she offered her hand to the woman. “Lavellan of Wy - Lavellan of Skyhold.”

“ _Oh_.” The woman’s face lit up. “ _You’re_  Lavellan! I mean, Lady Lavellan. You’re the talk of the town you know, ever since you moved into the manor.”

“All good things, I hope.” Lavellan smiled, even though she knew something of what people had said about her.

“Eh, you can’t put any stock in what people talk about. Me? I like to know someone first hand before I judge them.” The woman reached a hand up behind her head as though to scratch her neck, though the better of it, and instead dropped her hands and idly began twisting her fingers within one another. “Less mistakes that way. Er.” The fiddling stopped and she thrust out her hand again; once more, Lavellan took it in greeting. “Harding. That’s me, I mean. Miss Harding, I guess, though Harding will do.”

“Miss Harding. How do you do, Miss Harding?”

“ _Very_  well!” said Harding, her smile like a light. For someone who had nearly been knocked onto her back in a head-on collision, she was practically luminous. “And you, Miss - er - Lady - er - Lavellan?”

“Either will do,” Lavellan said, for she was not yet used to having anything associated with her name. The way that Harding’s eyebrows rose made her think that, perhaps, she should have said something different.

“Well, Lady Lavellan. It was very good to run into you. Quite literally.”

She made as though to leave, but Lavellan, in a moment of spontaneity, said “wait!”

Harding paused, one foot still in the air. “Yes?”

“I only meant - well. You see, I am very new to the area and I am in need of some advice. I am looking to employ someone to run my stables and grounds - would you possibly know anyone I could speak to?”

Harding pursed her lips. “No one in Haven.  _But_  - I grew up in Redcliffe - that’s to the east - and they always said that Master Dennett had the best horses. It’s not far, and I imagine that he would have the best idea of who you should hire.”

“That is...remarkably helpful!” Lavellan felt a rush of gratitude towards the woman. “Should I tell him that Miss Harding recommended him?”

The look on Harding’s face was one of comical horror. “Oh,  _no!_  I wouldn’t do that. I don’t think he has the  _best_  opinion of me -I used to throw rotten apples at the side of his barn when I was a girl.”

Lavellan put a hand up to her mouth to hide her laugh, though it was of little use. “I  _see_. That is - I will make certain to keep your name out of it, then!”

Harding gave a little snorting laugh of her own. “Sounds great to me. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Lavellan. If you ever need any more suggestions, feel free to ask! I’ve got more than a few stored up!”

Lavellan smiled, quite brilliantly. “I may very well take you up on that, Miss Harding. Something tells me that I will need quite a number of suggestions, living in this town!”

 

*

 

A week after Lavellan moved into Skyhold Manor, the Iron Bull and his company of soldiers arrived.

Captain Iron Bull was the sort of intimidating, imposing figure who could silence a room just by entering, if he wanted. He was a large ox of a man, towering well above Lavellan’s head, a great mass of muscle and bone. Most who only saw him thought that he looked incredibly intimidating and dangerous. When Lavellan had met him for the first time, she had noted that he looked like he could have picked her up as though she weighed nothing at all.

He was a grizzled and scarred in a way that implied a long life of service, and she had never learned the story behind his missing eye. But for all that he looked incredibly dangerous, Lavellan had learned that he could, in his own way, be the most amiable, generous person she had ever met.

It had been perhaps three years since she had met the Iron Bull, and it was only now that she could properly repay him and his company for all the help they had been. The Chargers were a fine company of soldiers.

Lavellan returned from a morning out to find a commotion at Skyhold; the booming voice of Bull resounded as she made her way up the path. A grin spread out over her face and she picked up her pace; she fairly bounded up the steps of the manor.

“Bull!” she said with great enthusiasm, throwing the doors open to find him just inside. Krem stood beside him, arms crossed.

“Look who finally decided to show up. Took his sweet time about it, too.”

“Aw, come on now. I told you a week and here we are.” Bull turned around then, a wide grin on his face. “Good to see you, boss. Looks like you’ve got a disaster on your hands here.”

“More than you know,” she said, though she was not sure she wanted to elaborate quite yet. “Thank you for coming. I do appreciate it.”

Bull’s hand on her shoulder was large and comforting. “For you? Anything. Besides, you’re paying this time. Couldn’t very well leave you hanging.”

“Same old Bull,” she said, patting his hand. She was more relieved than she had anticipated at his appearance.

She was equally happy to see the Chargers. A more raucous, lively group of soldiers she had never met, and she was fairly certain that most of the stories they had told her of their exploits were made up.

Krem, too, seemed much more at ease to be back among the Chargers; he was, as the Iron Bull had once said, the finest lieutenant one could ask for. And the Chargers were, she knew, more a family for Krem than anyone else in the world.

Skyhold Manor was sudden much more lively, the bare halls filled with laughter and light. It was as though the old bones of the house were rejuvenated by their presence, and the oppressive feel of the largeness of the whole place lifted. Literally, in many ways - they cleared the rubble and fallen beams, and the Bull happily took out an entire wall. For the sake of creating space, of course.

They wouldn’t stay forever, Lavellan knew, just long enough to square debts and to get paid. But it was enough to have them around.

 

*

 

Now, a company of soldiers lodging in one’s home, even temporarily, brings tongues to gossip, and while Lavellan did not care much about what reputation was associated with her name, she was not overly fond of whispers.

And whispers did indeed follow her, though without quite the level of disdain from those first days in Haven. Her reputation was much improved from then, but she knew, quite well, that those of Haven were still not entirely certain what to make of her.

There was, additionally, the matter of her being dalish.

Lavellan was, for her part, incredibly proud of her dalish heritage. While it had, in the north, been a matter of some note, she found that the further south she went, the more of an issue it became. But, perhaps, those in the south better remembered what had been done to those from the Dales, and seeing her face and ears and hearing her voice was too much a reminder of things that those in the south preferred to forget.

The Dales had once belonged to her people - the grand estates, the land, all of it. The far south had been owned by the dalish and no one liked to acknowledge the means by which it had been taken from them.

Still, all of that aside, her reputation no longer included whisperings of  _murder_ , particularly among the elite of Haven, and so Lavellan found herself quickly called upon to attend a luncheon at Nightingale Hall.

Now Lady Leliana had - or so rumor said - a most colorful past. No one could agree on exactly  _what_  that past entailed, but most  _could_  agree that she had the most marvelous of singing voices and told the most amazing stories. She was from Orlais, originally from Val Royeaux, and she had been a close confidant of the Duchess Divine in her later years.

Lavellan found herself hearing some of these stories that day, as they sat in her parlor drinking tea. Cassandra was there, stiff and stern, though far more relaxed than she had been at their first meetings, and Leliana was all open charm and grace.

“You simply  _must_  see the fashions of Val Royeaux,” she told her over a hot cup of tea, which she took with cream and enough sugar that just watching her drink it made Lavellan’s teeth ache. “It is simply the center of culture and fashion. You’ve never been, have you? To Val Royeaux?”

“No,” said Lavellan, sipping at her own tea into which she had stirred sugar in mimicry of Leliana - though in a much lesser amount. It was still very sweet; she supposed tea like this was an acquired taste. It was not tea that she had drunk often, instead drinking things black and bitter that came from Seheron on trade ships.

“This is the furthest south I have ever been,” she continued when Leliana looked at her in something like shock. “I had not crossed the Waking Sea before coming here; I could tell you much about the fashions of the Free Marches, however. As well as the general sense of things being very wet and very warm.”

“How lovely,” Leliana said. “I have only briefly been to the Free Marches - I was in Kirkwall several years ago, before all that dreadful business happened.”

“ _Oh_.” Lavellan made a face into her tea. “I am familiar with that. That business. It was…” She searched for the word she wanted, but could not find it.

Cassandra’s expression had grown more thunderous at the mention of Kirkwall. “It was  _unfortunate_. Deeply unfortunate. Kirkwall was left to its own devices for far too long. That it ended in political ruin for Magistrate Elthina shows how badly the situation had turned. Had someone interceded earlier, perhaps things would have not become so dire.”

Lavellan was quite stunned. “I would have thought your first concern would have been that it was the start of the mage revolution,” she said. “The early tenants for magical reform began there, as I recall.”

“It was extremist propaganda,” Cassandra said, and to that Leliana made a noise of distaste. “Leliana and I do not fully agree on this point, as you can see.”

“ _Magical and Social Reform: A Manifesto_  makes some  _very_  good points.” Leliana set down her tea cup a little too harshly and a drop of liquid jumped out over the brim. “We treat all magic as though it makes those who use it inherently dangerous, with little regard for the goodness that it can cause. I have known many mages who were much better people than I.”

“Reform  _is_  needed, but not the sort that was... _suggested_  at Kirkwall.”

Lavellan’s face was alight with interest. She had not, when she first met these women, anticipated that they might at all allign with the side  _for_  reform.

“If I might ask,” she began, and both women turned to look at her. “What sort of reform do you consider acceptable?”

“We must reform our current magical system, but we cannot full abandon it,” Cassandra said, and again a pinched look grew on Leliana’s face.

“But our current system is built upon a rotten foundation.” Leliana picked back up her tea cup, but did not drink. “We must rebuild it from the ground up.”

“And abandon all good about it?”

The look that passed between the two spoke of an old argument. While Lavellan was actually quite happy to sit and listen to the political discourse, Leliana, apparently was not.

“I am afraid we are boring you with our politics,” Leliana said. She sipped her tea, then let her eyes fall to Lavellan’s mostly empty cup. “More tea?”

“Not at all! I mean, yes, I could use more tea, but no I am not bored! Quite the contrary, in fact.”

“Still. Surely we can talk of something less dreary.” Leliana replaced her tea cup on its saucer before pouring more tea. Lavellan eyed it cautiously before deciding against adding any sugar. When she tasted it, she found it much more to her liking. “For instance, I hear that Mr. Tethras has another story in the works!”

Lavellan did not miss the way that Cassandra’s eyebrows rose. “Does he now? One of his crime serials, I expect.”

“The rumor is that it is another installment to his  _romance_  series.”

Cassandra’s lips pursed. “Surely not.”

“He writes romance as well crime?” asked Lavellan who had not, in fact, read any work by Varric at all. “Is he any good?”

The expression on Leliana’s face was quite amused.

“Oh, his romance is  _terrible_. Very over the top and quite unbelievable. Now, his crime serials?  _Those_  I would easily recommend to any friend. I do have the first collection, if you are interested?”

Cassandra scoffed, but Lavellan’s face lit up. “Oh, certainly! I must say, I’ve never read a crime serial before. I’m most interested in seeing what it is like!”

She, of course, had no way of knowing that she would be sent home with the number one best selling crime serial in the country, as well as the first installment of the sequel. Leliana was only too happy to foister the books upon her, and so when Lavellan set off down the footpath in the late afternoon, she had a carefully wrapped parcel of books under her arm.

Now Lavellan was particularly fond of the outdoors, and she had a habit of wearing practical boots beneath her petticoats, and so when she saw the opportunity to explore than countryside beyond the road, she took it. While it was a crisp, cool day out, it was not a wet one, and so she had none of the trouble of marshy, wet areas like she would have in Wycome.

She wound a round about way back to Skyhold, through the hilled land that surrounded it. It was a decent walk from Nightengale Hall back to her home, and she allowed herself to take it leisurely.

It was upon coming up a rise that she had an unexpected meeting. She had looked down at her feet for a moment to make certain she would not trip over any roots, and when she looked back up at the crest of the hill it was to find herself near face-to-face with Mr. Solas.

“Mr. Solas!” she exclaimed with some surprise; she had not heard another person, but he appeared to have pulled himself up short as well, for he had the expression of someone who had stopped very suddenly and unexpectedly.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said, head tipped slightly to the side. “I did not expect to see you out here.”

Lavellan blinked owlishly and readjusted the books beneath her arm. “I thought I would explore the countryside. It felt far too confining to - well, to be confined to the roads! I did not expect to see  _you_  out here.” She peered at him then, as though noting what he carried for the first time.

He was clad in his patchwork coat, as he had been the first time they met, the leather stitched together with an even, if large hand, and she saw now that it was lined with fur that poked up at the collar. A heavy canvas sack was caught up over his shoulder and beneath his arm he carried a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper.

“Oh,” she said, as she attempted to piece it all together. “Were you out here painting?”

For a moment longer than she deemed necessary, Mr. Solas hesitated, as though considering his words.

“Not in the strictest sense,” he said after a beat. He must have seen the curiosity on Lavellan’s face, for he ducked his head slightly with the barest hint of a smile. “I had intended to find a place to draw; there are ruins that I had thought would offer inspiration.”

“And did you find inspiration there?” she asked him, and his smile grew.

“I’m afraid that I fell asleep before I could draw anything,” he said, and she realized that his humor was, perhaps, partially in mockery of himself. “Though I cannot say I was wholly without inspiration.”

Lavellan’s brows knit together in consternation. “Do you often fall asleep in old ruins? Forgive me, but it seems like today would be slightly too cold for such a thing.”

Solas gave a breath that seemed almost the precursor to a laugh. “Perhaps, but I am not much bothered by the cold. But as I said, I had intended to work, not sleep. Still, the hour has grown too late for that now; I will lose the light soon enough.”

Lavellan briefly glanced up at the sky; sure enough, the sun had begun its descent and the light was now that of late afternoon.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose I had rather get back to Skyhold. Unless…” She hesitated for a moment, a breath too long as she carefully weighed her words. “Would you care to walk with me, Mr. Solas?”

There was a look of surprise that crossed his face. “Why?” he asked, cautiously, as though he was not, in fact, used to people asking him to walk with them.

“Because I would like to know you better, and a walk is often a good way to do so. Unless you take all your walks in silence. And I must confess, I was...intrigued by our conversation last we met.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, his gaze flickering over her face as though searching for something there. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “I will walk with you, and you may ask what you wish.”

She was not unsurprised by this, but she kept her expression smooth and open. She smile and gestured towards her chosen path. Mr. Solas fell in step beside her. It did take her a moment before she could decide what she wished to ask, and so despite her earlier words they did walk in silence, if only momentarily. The countryside was lovely, if cold, and she wondered if there would be a frost in the morning.

They crested the hill and, for a moment before the land sloped away again, she could see Skyhold Manor where it sat near the foot of the mountains.

“You were quite cryptic the other day,” Lavellan said after a time. “As though you knew something about the ring I wear that I do not.”

“Ah.” She saw his eyes momentarily fall to her hand, though the ring was hidden beneath her glove. “I see that you jump straight to the heart of the matter.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. It is rather refreshing, in it’s way.” He shifted his wrapped canvas beneath his arm. “I suppose by now you have worked out that there is magic in it, have you not?”

Lavellan’s lips thinned slightly. She had, in fact, sat for quite some time after speaking with him, staring at the ring. “Yes,” she said. “Though that became rather obvious after I found I was unable to remove it.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the surprise on his face. “You cannot remove it?”

“Oh, no,” she said, and she deftly transferred the books she carried to the other arm and then tugged her glove off. “This ring is quite effectively stuck to my finger. I would think it simply an ill fit, but that has proven not to be the case. Short of removing the digit, I do not believe this ring is going anywhere.”

“Fascinating,” he said, and his steps took him a little closer to her. “Might I?”

While she had, upon first meeting him a week ago, felt some sense of unease, it had all but dissipated now. The curiosity had not, but she did not feel strange about allowing him to take her hand and look at the ring. That she suspected he was a mage like herself likely had something to do with it.

She felt a slight shiver run through her as he took her hand; he wore knit woolen gloves that left his fingers bare. The wool was rough against her skin and his fingers cold from the winter air.

“ _Fascinating_ ,” he said again; his touch was light and he set down his canvas by his feet so that he held her hand with one of his own while his other tugged slightly at the ring. Sure enough it did not move forward or back, though it could be spun to turn the emerald in towards her palm. For a brief moment, she felt a flash of heat - it took a moment to realize that he had spun magic into the ring.

“Are you entirely certain you should be doing that to rings of unknown magic that are currently adhered to my hand?

He looked slightly embarrassed, or perhaps apologetic. “I apologize. I had thought to determine if it would react to foreign magic, but it appears whatever the nature of this, it does not.”

Lavellan smile, a small laugh in her breath. “I could have told you that. But I suppose you have just answered a lingering question of mine.”

“Ah, yes. The magic, I presume.”

“The magic,” she said in way of confirmation. He still held her hand, but now he no longer looked at the ring. “I take it you are not college trained.”

“Not at all. And you?”

“I am dalish,” she said, as though it was an answer. And, indeed, it was, as much as if she had said she was from the empire of Tevinter or from Par Vollen. “But you have said you are not, which makes me curious as to where you trained if you were never part of the college. Though I will not press, if it is an issue.”

It did not appear to be. Mr. Solas’s face was, surprisingly, less guarded than she would have imagined, given the line of questioning. “I am primarily self taught,” he said, and  _that_  surprised her. “In painting as well,” he added, and that made her smile.

As their eyes met and they smiled at one another - her more brightly than he, but still both their faces bore the expression - it was as though a moment was suspended. Lavellan became quite aware of that fact that he still held her hand.

She did, then, lift her hand from his and carefully replace her glove, all the while carefully not meeting his eyes.

“It is growing late,” she said, tugging the edge of the glove until the leather lay smoothly. “I should return to Skyhold.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” As she had stepped back, so had he; he picked up the wrapped canvas and tucked it back under his arm. “It was a pleasure to speak with you, Lady Lavellan.”

“Thank you for walking with me,” she said. “I quite enjoyed our talk.”

And she had. She very much had.

As she hurried up the final hill to the walk way that would take her up to Skyhold Manor, she glanced behind her and caught a glimpse of Mr. Solas - tattered coat, canvas, and all - as he disappeared into the woods.

 


	4. In which Lavellan gets extraordinarily lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Lavellan go to Val Royueax and Lavellan finds that she is terrible at navigating in cities.

It was unexpected, the invitation from Lady Cassandra to join her in Val Royeaux.

“I have business in the city,” she said when Lavellan inquired into the why of the visit. “And as you are now the heir to at least part of the Divine’s assets, I thought that you might want to…” She sighed, heavily. “Lady Montilyet _suggested_ that I take you with me. Something about making connections. She also mentioned that she has heard mention that there are those who wish to meet you. I do not have the patience for the games that they play in Val Royeaux, but I will admit that you cannot ignore it. Should you wish to go, I have accommodations in the city.”

Now, Lavellan had very little desire to go to Val Royeaux. She was, after all, dalish by birth and upbringing, and the dalish people had very little love for those in Val Royeaux. But here she was, attempting to fill the shoes of a noble woman, and even if she found this distasteful she supposed that it was likely of importance that she go.

“Very well,” she said. Cassandra seemed surprised, her eyebrows rising in shock.

“Very well?”

“I’ll go. How long will we be staying?”

“As long as is required,” Cassandra said, and from the air of irritation that surrounded the woman, Lavellan thought that her business in Val Royeaux must be very unpleasant indeed.

And so she set about making preparations to leave. She said her goodbyes to Bull and the Chargers, who were also leaving Haven.

“We’ll be back before you even realize we’re gone,” Bull said, setting his large hand on her shoulder. “Just got some business to take care of, but you know how it is. The Chargers have a reputation to live up to!”

“I know, Bull,” she said and she reached up to set her own hand on top of his. He was a veritable mountain of a man, and to look up at him when he was so close meant she had to tip her head back quite a ways. “But don’t stay away overlong; I would miss you dearly. All of you.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be able to keep us away.” Bull grinned widely. “Besides, I hear Krem enjoyed the parties here.”

“Did he now?” Lavellan had not particularly thought he had enjoyed himself at Lady Montileyet’s party, but perhaps she had been wrong.

And so the Iron Bull and his company left Haven, heading for the northern coast, and Lady Lavellan was bundled up into a carriage and began her trip into the west. She was quite literally bundled up in a long coat with fur at the collar, as the temperature had dropped considerably in the past week, and winter had very unmistakably set its grip upon the land.

Cassandra sat across from her in the carriage, and her face was set in the sternest of expressions. Lavellan, not wanting to spend the entirety of a ride to Val Royeaux in silence, attempted to coax her into conversation.

“This business you have in Val Royeaux,” she began, in what was, perhaps, not the smartest of conversation starters. “I trust it is nothing too dire?”

Cassandra gave a bit of a start, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then she allowed herself a small breath and leaned back in her seat.

“I suppose,” she said, in a way that bore no intimidation, “I should tell you at least some of why I am going to Val Royeaux. It does involve you, though not directly.”

Lavellan could not help the small jump of worry that formed in her gut at that. “It involves _me?_ ”

“Yes.” Cassandra clasped her hands before her, settling them on her lap. Lavellan could not help but notice how she twisted her fingers as she spoke. “You realize, of course, that Grand Duchess Justinia Divine was sovereign over a great deal of land, of which the Skyhold estate was only a portion. While I hold no claims to inheritance in this, I did officiate over certain matters of Lady Divine’s. And there are _many_ matters which must be dealt with, given her death and no clear line of succession. It is miraculous that you even came to Skyhold with the quickness that you did.”

Lavellan drew in a measured breath. “I assure you, I make no claims to any inheritance than I already have. You will find no difficulty from me.”

“I believe you,” Cassandra said, and she began to twist her fingers together even more. “And that is another reason why I asked you along, if truth is to be told. I believe what you have told me, and that the letter you have in Lady Divine’s hand is legitimate, but I would know more about how you acquired it.”

Lavellan opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a soft “oh.” She leaned back against the backing of the carriage, tipping her head so that she could see the countryside flash by as they rattled across the road.

“That is a...complicated story, I am afraid,” she said, and looked at Cassandra from the corner of her eye. The other woman sat there, her hands now still in her lap, and the strong set of her jaw was not coupled with any threat in her eyes. “I mentioned that I do not remember _how_ I came into possession of that letter, and I told you the truth in that. I was sent south from Wycome some time before her death, with the intent of understanding the reformation legislature that has been brought before your courts. As you know, I am sure, Wycome lies outside of reach of Tevinter but not outside the reach of your college and your laws.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap and turned her head to look at Cassandra directly. “What happens in Orlais has always affected those I call kin, and I could hardly have stood by without a notion as to what was occurring.”

There was furrow between Cassandra’s brows; her face was made up of so many lines and angles, the harsh cut of her jaw and her cheek. “And you somehow came to the attention of Lady Divine,” she said, and Lavellan nodded.

“Yes. I mean to say, I suppose that I did. I do not fully remember what occurred, and it is dreadfully frustrating. For both of us, I think. I have the strongest sense that I met her, but I cannot think of _how_.”

Cassandra did not at all seem appeased by this, and Lavellan could hardly blame her. She knew that she was quite lucky to even be afforded the consideration she had been - she would be always grateful to Lady Montilyet for verifying the papers and to Cassandra for believing that they were true. Part of her wished to say that, perhaps, there was something of a magical nature involved in the entire thing, but she did not want to reveal even that.

But then Cassandra said something that surprised her.

“Lady Divine was in favor of reform,” she said, and Lavellan straightened just a bit in surprise, her lips parting just slightly.

“She...was?” This was news to her, for she had not known or suspected the political leanings of the Grand Duchess.

Cassandra inclined her head. “She was. Not, perhaps, to the extreme of the views that came out of Kirkwall, but she believed that the way the College handled those of magical inclination and the way that those outside of the College were treated was in need of change. She would have had a strong voice in the vote to come, but…” And there, her face turned away from Lavellan. “It was not to be.”

***

A carriage ride from Have to Val Royeaux took several days, and by the time that they arrived Lavellan was glad to be on her own feet again. As they neared the city, the roads became better repaired; they were smooth and paved and the carriage no longer bounced along.

As they rounded the final bend and came into view of the city, Lavellan moved towards the window of the carriage and looked out, and what she saw was - not exactly breath-taking, but something close.

Val Royeaux was a city of contradictions. That first glance, as they came upon it, showed tall buildings in blue and white, opulent columns and heraldry. She could, from here, see the furthest out of the reflecting pools as mirrors upon the ground, and as they neared and came within the walls she saw her first looks of those dressed in the rich fashions of the town.

But there was a second part ot Val Royeaux, which she initially only saw from a distance. For the city was at the forefront of many things, and one of those was industry. While the rich quarter of the city was, for the most part, bright and shining, there was the industrial quarter shuttered away to the side, and it seemed like a dark shadow compared to the brightness of the rest. Lavellan wondered at it as it as they came into the city, if it was anything like the newly industrialized Kirkwall with it’s foundries that belched smoke and the mechanical contraptions powered by coal and steam and magic.

She had only been to Kirkwall a few times, and it had not been so near to grand as _this_.

Val Royeaux was often said to be the center of culture and fashion in the south, and from the little she saw on the carriage ride into the city, she could see why. She had, of course, seen Orlesian fashions before, printed on fashion plates and on papers. She had not, however, seen those fashions in person. If someone had told her that men and women wore such clothing outside of the most proper of gatherings, she would have laughed, but now, seeing it, she could only marvel at the rich fabrics and wide skirts, impossibly decorated winter coats lined with fur and lace. It made her feel under dressed in her practical woolen coat, the dark green dour compared to the bright peacock-like colors of Val Royeaux.

The carriage brought them to their destination; apparently Lady Montilyet had lodgings within the city that she had made arrangements for them to stay at. By way of space it was no extraordinary place, but in terms of decoration it was simply stunning, as well as far more opulent than Lavellan’s tastes ran.

Cassandra excused herself soon after they arrived to begin to attend to her business, and after a short reprieve - and some time examining the trappings of the rooms they were staying in and being both amazing and slightly disgusted by how much money must have gone into them - Lavellan decided that she could not simply sit idly by and wait around for her return. She was, after all, in Val Royeaux, and her opinion on Orlesians notwithstanding, she intended to see the city.

Now, a dalish woman in a well tailored dress was certain to draw a few odd looks, but Lavellan was thankfully not the subject of much scrutiny as she stepped out into the streets. It was warmer in Val Royeaux than it had been in Haven; still winter, but not the bitter chill that had set in elsewhere.

Oh, but the city was a pretty thing, and that was something Lavellan could appreciate, even with her instinctive dislike of those who had taken away the lands and estates of the far south from the dalish generations before.

She walked through the streets, peering into shop windows and listening to idle bits of gossip. She was, by and large, unnoticed, like a little shadow that slipped between all of the brightly colored courtiers and ladies. She did have some ulterior motives, of course, as she looked about - Skyhold manor was in need of new furnishings, and Lady Montilyet had told her that Val Royeaux would have the finest that she would find anywhere. And while she did not need the _finest_ furnishings in the land, she did very much need to replace the moldering drapes and the rotted tables, the threadbare armchairs and the bedding. Perhaps, she thought, she would even buy a pianoforte, though she did not know more than the basics herself.

Lavellan amused herself with this thought as she wandered - _her?_ With a pianoforte, like she was a proper lady born into her status? It was an amusing thought.

At some point, however, she took a wrong turn. It was not hard to do, in an unknown city filled with winding streets that connected wide courtyards. The houses grew less bright and the street dirtier, but try as she might to retrace her steps, she only managed to get herself more hopelessly lost.

It was the acrid smell of metal and smoke that finally alerted her to which exact part of the city she had found herself in; the click and whir of machinery and the heat of industrial fires told her this as well. She found herself on a long street with a factory to one side, a tall wall and gate barring all from entry. The pollution of the air burned her lungs and made her want to breathe only shallowly; still, she found herself wishing to cough desperately. She had a sudden, stabbing longing for the forests that surrounded Wycome, a longing as sharp as the metallic tang in the air.

Some distance from her, just to the side of the gate, were two figures - one tall and dressed in dark colors, the other small and slight. She could not make out what they were saying, but they seemed to be in the midst of some sort of argument. As she neared, however, she caught at least part of it.*

“You can’t protest here, Sera,” said the taller of the two figures. He was a large man, with a great greying beard and hair pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his head. His clothes were dark and sternly cut, matching the equally stern look on his face.

“Like hell I can’t!” The voice came from the petite woman with pale skin standing just before him, her feet planted squarely beneath her, hands planted on her hips. She was a veritable mish-mash of colors - her pants were yellow checks and her shirt was red, her coat a blue that might have once been bright. Beneath a tattered cap, her straw-like hair was chopped to odd lengths. Lavellan could see a sign tacked up to the wall - she could not make it all out from her angle, but she thought she saw something that looked like _Jenny_. “That’s complete _shite_ , Blackwall. I can put things where I want, thank you very much.”

The man - Blackwall - gave a deep sigh. “You need a permit. It’s the rules, but - “ He leaned down, his voice dropping. “Look. Just this once, I’ll pretend I didn’t see you. You know I hate this as much as I do - put your signs up and get out of here, and no one will be the wiser.”

The woman seemed to see her for the first time, her eyes gone wide. “Aw _piss_ ,” she said, dropping a handful of nails into her pocket and hiding the hammer she had likely used to put up the sign behind her back, as though she could quickly hide the evidence. “See, this is why I work alone. In, out, and without being held up by _large bearded men_.”

The man sighed again, then turned to face her. Lavellan felt even more out of place than before, but she straightened her spine and spoke.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I appear to be somewhat lost. Could either of you point me in the right direction to return to the ah…” She searched for a word. “I am to meet someone near the reflecting pools, but I have become entirely lost.”

It was not the truth, but it was the first landmark that came to mind. The man and woman looked at each other for a brief moment.

“What, that’s all?” said the woman. “No ‘ _oh what are you doing with that sign’_?”

“Oh, _that_ sign?” Lavellan said as though she had just noticed it. “I thought it was part of the factory decor. _High wages, better conditions -_ isn’t that something that should be outside all factories?” She did not read off the second part of the sign, which said _Jenny says unionize now,_ with _Jenny_ written in bright red paint.

“ _What?_ ” The woman’s eyebrows went up, while the man made a _harumph_ ing sound deep in his throat.

“If you want, my lady, I can show you the way to the reflecting pools. The city’s a fucking - begging your pardon - maze to anyone who doesn’t know it.”

Lavellan smiled brightly. “That would be _lovely_.”

Behind him, the woman muttered something under her breath as she picked up two more signs that rested at her feet.

“Pleasure to see you as always, Sera,” the man said, and Lavellan would swear there was genuine good humor in his voice.

“Piss off, Blackwall,” said Sera. She made a very rude gesture in his direction as she scurried off into the alleyway.

Lavellan felt that ignoring the entire exchange was the best way to deal with things.

“Mr. Blackwall, then?” she said pleasantly. “If you would care to lead me out of this place, I would be much obliged.”

Blackwall gave her face a searching look before he nodded. “Right this way, my lady,” he said, starting off down a side street. Lavellan was slightly suspicious, given that it was not the way she had come from, but she supposed that she could have gotten so lost as to have come at things from the entirely wrong direction.

“Constable Thom Blackwall,” he said after a moment, and Lavellan’s eyebrows went up. She noticed that he walked somewhat hunched, his hands jammed into the pockets of his large, navy blue coat.

“Lady Lavellan of Wy - of Skyhold,” she said smoothly.

“Never heard of it. Wait.” He looked at her more closely then, out of the corner of his eye, as though he _did_ in fact know who she was. But then he shook his head. “Nope. Never heard of it.”

That was, in many ways, surprisingly refreshing. Someone who did not seem to know a thing about her and the Divine.

“That was a good thing you did back there,” she said after a few minutes of silence as they trudged through the city streets.

“What, offer to help you find your way back? There are worse things than helping a fine lady like yourself find her way in the city.”

 _A fine lady like yourself_. She was still not used to being spoken to in such a way, and she felt a flush of heat in her cheeks.

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” she said, and for a moment he looked up at her and he looked at him. His eyebrows quirked and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Now _that_ , what you’re talking about, was the right thing to do.”

Now Lavellan was not entirely certain why, but she felt some measure of affection for this newly met man based only on this. Though he seemed very gruff and his manner was not altogether proper, there was something endearing in the sincerity of the brief action she had seen and the way he spoke of it. She glanced at him and a small smile played on her face.

The streets around them were still not entirely familiar, but they seemed to have begun to move from the industrial district. The sharp smell of metal and smoke was dissipating and left Lavellan better able to breathe.

“I did not come this way before,” she told him as they passed by a butcher’s shop. “I did not realize this city would be such a confusing place!”

“Not a city dweller, are you?”

“Oh, no. I was raised in the countryside outside of Wycome.”

He glanced at her again, as though trying to place something. “I took you for a northerner. You’ve got that look about you.”

She deftly sidestepped a pile of refuse in the street. “And you, Constable? You don’t sound as though you are from Val Royeaux.”

He laughed. “Me? No. I’m a Marcher as well - though from further to the west than you. Careful -”  
And he then caught her arm, hand splayed just below her elbow, and pulled her out of the way of an oncoming cart. She felt a swooping sensation in her stomach as he moved her, and she remained just a the slightest bit off kilter as the cart rattled its way off down the street.

“Oh. That -”

“Apologies, my lady.” He dropped his hand almost instantaneously. Lavellan unnecessarily tugged at the end of her sleeve, needlessly attempting to smooth wrinkles in her coat.

“No apologies are necessary. I did not hear that cart and I greatly appreciate not being run down in a city I have little familiarity with.”

Constable Blackwall dipped his head, and then motioned to the branching of the street. “This way, my lady.”

It seemed that she had walked far further than she had realized, and for a time she was slightly wary that the constable was leading her in the wrong direction. But the grime and grit of the streets was soon replaced by the brightly painted buildings of the upper quarter, and the air felt less oppressive and thick. It was as though it were an entirely different city from the one she had just been in, and the juxtaposition set her on edge.

He brought her right to the edge of the reflecting pool she had specified. “I trust I’ve gotten you to your destination?” he said, and Lavellan smiled.

“That you have. I am forever grateful - I might have wandered through Val Royeaux endlessly if I hadn’t run into you!”

“I’m sure you would have found your way. You seem very resourceful to me.”

Lavellan looked out over the reflecting pool, at the way the buildings appeared as mirrored images in it, and then she looked back to him. She clasped her hands before her, politely.

“Thank you for your aid, Constable,” she told him. “You seem to me a very honorable man, and I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

For a moment, he seemed quite startled, as though he had not expected something which she had said. And then his face softened and he smiled at her.

“It was my pleasure,” he said, and she thought, in that moment, that his eyes were very kind and also very sad.

***

When she went back into the housing in which she and Cassandra were staying, Lavellan received quite a fright. She did not do anything like shriek or yell, but her heart did jump straight into a run when she turned around to see someone quite unexpected sitting in the parlor.

“ _You!_ ” she said, just a tad breathless. “How did you get in here?”

The woman who she had seen by the factory smiled toothily from where she sat on the davenport, her feet propped up on the table before her. “Window. Val Royeaux is _easy_ \- you’ve got all these decorative what’s-its - those flower vine things. Makes it easy to climb _anything_.” She grinned even more widely, and Lavellan noticed that without her coat she was dressed in what looked as though it had once been a noblewoman’s dress seasons before. “ _So_. The name’s Sera. And you’re Lavellan. Of _Skyhold_.”

“You were following me.”

Sera cocked her head to the side. “Well _yeah_. You saw me, I saw you - I wasn’t going to just run off and forget all about _that_. And good thing I didn’t, because _Skyhold?_ Blackwall might not know what you’re talking about, but I do. You’re the talk of the town, Miss Lavellan, and Red Jenny wants to talk to _you_.”

“Red Jenny,” Lavellan tested out slowly. “Like the sign at the factory.”

“Yes!” Sera slapped a hand on her thigh and sat forward. “Just so! See, _I_ think it’s clever. Jenny, all in red? People think it’s just a name, but you see it painted somewhere and _bam_ , that’s it, Red Jenny all up your wall.”

“Oh. I see.” She didn’t, not exactly - she, of course, understood the combination of red paint and the name Jenny to make _Red Jenny_ , but not anything more than that. Still, she sat down on the armchair across from Sera. “And what _is_ Red Jenny?”

“Me. Well. Not _just_ me. See, we’re people. Little people, not great big people.” Her hands moved animatedly as she spoke. “We’re a _union_. Or we will be, if we get enough other little people on our side. People around here don’t like that word. _Union_. Like it’s something bad.”

Now, Lavellan had not heard the name _Red Jenny_ before, but she was somewhat familiar with the concept of a union. It was something which she had seen in both Wycome and Kirkwall, with varying effects in each city. “And you’re telling me this because?” she asked, which was her true question. Why was this woman here, unveiling who she was, to _her?_

“Because you’re _her_. Lady of Skyhold. _Inheritor_ of that Divine’s stuff. And you’re a little person - or you _were_. See, I listen to things, and I knew the Lady of Skyhold wasn’t another big lord or noble or what have you. I mean, you’re _dalish_ , so that’s uh...that’s a _thing_ , but you’re not - you know, _big_. Yet.”

Lavellan was not entirely certain what to make of that last bit. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A _thing?_ ”

“You know. You’re all…” She waved her hand absently and did not actually elaborate. “But look, you’re not all high and mighty _yet_. And that’s important. Get in good before you get too big to hit, right? So here’s what I was thinking - I know people and I hear things, and you - you’re the new Lady Divine basically, yeah?”

“Not really,” she said, and even the suggestion that it could be her name made her skin crawl uncomfortably.

“Huh. Well. Look, all you big people don’t really care about us little people. But say I help you out - get you information, people, all that. Maybe you could remember that there are a bunch of us down here when you _do_ get all big.”

Lavellan blinked. “...I _think_ I’m following. Is this...a Red Jenny...thing?”

Sera made a face, her mouth scrunched to the side. “It’s a _people_ thing. But you think about it, Lady Skyhold. Just think on it. And if you need me well - _I’ll_ find _you_.” She popped up from the couch and - before Lavellan could do much more - was out of the room.

“Use the - door,” Lavellan tried to say, but apparently the window was her preferred way to leave.

***

She was still attempting to understand exactly what had occurred during the day when Cassandra returned.

Now, Lavellan had much to think on. Sera’s entire proposal - if that was the correct term for it at all - was intriguing, and while she knew nothing of Red Jenny and the particulars of industry and unions in Val Royeaux, she was not _entirely_ unfamiliar with it. And then there was Constable Blackwall, with his sad, kind eyes and the touch of his hand on his arm, who she kept thinking on far more than was appropriate.

But then Cassandra blustered in, and all of that was momentarily swept away. She announced herself by way of heavy, angry footsteps at the threshold of the room, and at first it did not seem that she even noticed Lavellan’s presence.

“Cassandra?” Lavellan said after a few moments. “Is everything quite all right?”

She said this despite all appearances to the contrary.

Cassandra stopped in her angry pacing, hands braced against the frame of the door.

“I think that I was mistaken in not bringing you with me to meet Lord Lucius,” she said. “Or that could have only made things worse. If I were you, I would prepare for the possibility that someone may, sometime soon, challenge your claim to even your small portion of Lady Divine’s inheritance.”

 


	5. In which Madame de Fer holds a party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan is invited to yet another party - this time hosted by Madame de Fer herself.

Despite Cassandra’s dire words of warning, nothing came of them, at least nothing in the following weeks that the two of them stayed in Val Royeaux. While Lavellan knew very little about the actual intricacies of society and politics, Cassandra - and, purportedly, Lady Montilyet, who had written out rather lengthy treatise on the subject - knew enough of who she needed to speak to and what she needed to speak of.

It was, however, not all doom and gloom and legal speakings, for a week after arriving in Val Royeaux a letter was delivered for Lady Lavellan.

It was printed on heavy, expensive paper, expertly written, with gold foil embossing that made it seem even grander. _Lady Lavellan of Skyhold_ it said upon it, and Lavellan read - with some disbelief - and invitation to the salon of Madame de Fer.

Now, Madame de Fer was not completely unknown to Lavellan. She was a woman of remarkably high social standing, given her ties to the magical community. It was a known fact that she was an incredibly accomplished enchanter. She was the exact sort of person that someone outside of the college could look at and say “if every mage were like her, there would be no need for reform.”

Lavellan had read several papers published by her, back when she lived in Wycome. They had been impeccably written, with thorough methods and the most stringent of controls that Lavellan had ever read of.

And it was this astounding woman who had invited Lavellan to her salon.

Had she been anywhere else, Lavellan might have panicked greatly. Her lack of social graces notwithstanding, to show up in a simple dress would have been, well, utterly unacceptable, no matter _how_ Lady Montilyet had complimented her. But she was in Val Royeaux and she was recently come into the sort of wealth she had never had before, and when faced with such an event as attending a party thrown by Madame de Fer she knew precisely what to do.

Or rather, precisely what she _should_ do, though Lavellan did not entirely know her Orlesian fashions. And she was - and quite proudly so - dalish, a fact she could not well hide. And while walking around Val Royeaux might not have been a problem, a dalish woman attempting to buy a dress of such a type was something of a conundrum.

It was in this way that Lavellan managed to convince Cassandra to accompany her in shopping.

It was not, of course, Cassandra’s area of expertise, and she mentioned more than once that she would fare better if Leliana or Josephine were there to assist, but, as Lavellan reminded her, they were both a long carriage ride away and the salon was in two days. And it was more that she needed someone to come along with her to dissuade the sort of looks she might receive than anything else, and the look of surprise on Cassandra’s face told her that the woman had not considered that such a thing might be an issue.

Despite the harrowing experience that it turned out to be, two night later Lavellan arrived at the estate of Duke Bastien de Ghislain. It was a cold night, as it had been for some time now, and she wore a heavy coat over her gown, which was taken from her at the door.

If Lady Montilyet’s party had been a fine, warm, open affair, Madame de Fer’s was cool, elegant, and utterly elegant. There was no Krem with an arm for Lavellan to lean upon, no Cassandra as an unexpected ally. Here, Lavellan was simply herself among the bright peacocks of Orlesian nobility.

Even in her new gown, she felt underdressed. She had not felt compelled to wear the finest of orlesian fashions, did not wear sleeves with multiple tucks and slashes and pins, and her body was not made for any of the long corsets which were currently so in fashion. The green damask she wore did not seem so bright as the fabric others wore, and her wiry hair that so usually snapped and curled around her face seemed nothing like the elaborate designs and hats the other men and women wore. The thing about her that seemed to fit most with the setting was the ring upon her finger.

But Lavellan was far from a shrinking violet, and did not allow even one wisp of anxiety to crush her. She was Lady Lavellan of Skyhold now, and she had been _personally_ invited by Madame de Fer.

And so she held her head high and walked gracefully forward as her name was announced - _announced!_ She heard it, _Lady Lavellan of Skyhold_ , and she wondered at how she had even come to stand here.

But it was only to be a moment before she met the reason she was there. A woman - tall and beautiful, clad in silver and white, walked forward to meet her. By the way those around her parted and made way for her, Lavellan could only assume that this was who had invited her.

“My dear Lady Lavellan,” the woman said as she neared. “It is so good of you to come. I had been _so_ hoping to meet you.”

“Madame de Fer.” She dropped into a curtsey, low enough to be respectful.

There was the sound of perfect laughter. “Vivienne, my dear. You are, after all, my honored guest. Walk with me, darling; I have so much to speak with you of, and there are many here who are _dying_ to meet you.”

That Madame de Fer had given her leave from the first moment to call her Vivienne set Lavellan’s mind into motion. For such a woman to do such a thing meant she was either very eager to make her friendship, or it was a calculated move in some sort of society game that Lavellan could barely fathom. And she did not know this woman well enough to make that call.

“Madame Vivienne, then. Your invitation was a welcome surprise,” Lavellan said as Vivienne took her arm through hers and began to lead her across the floor.

A smile curved Vivienne’s mouth. “It should come as no surprise to you that there are those in society who wish to know your acquaintance. I simply felt it prudent to meet the woman who inherited a portion of Duchess Divine’s rather ample estates. Now, then, you _must_ meet Lord Abernache.”

And so Lavellan found herself brought around the room, meeting noble after noble, and for the life of her she could _not_ understand the turn of events. To find herself on the arm of Madame de Fer, meeting people such as _these_ \- it was hard to fathom. And yet it was happening, and with each new pleasantry passed she felt more and more wrung out.

It was after a brief meeting with a young man by the name of Delrin Barris - the son of a lord, as she understood, who had taken commission with the military - that Vivienne leaned her head just a hair closer to Lavellan, speaking in an undertone.

“I suppose that you are wondering _why_ I am introducing you to such people. It is not unknown to me that you are a newcomer to court. You may not understand the viper’s nest which you have happened upon. There are whispers, my dear, of a rival claim to your inheritance.” Lady de Fer’s face was utterly impassive as she said this. Lavellan, for her part, was not surprised by the news, but it caused her heart to jump to hear further confirmation of this. “You had best prepare yourself. In cases such as these, where multiple claims arise, court is often the place where a fortune goes to die. Having the proper connections will be of great importance if that happens.”

“I had assumed as much. I don’t suppose I could ask you _why_ you are warning me of this? It does not escape me that we are of no personal connection ourselves, Madame Vivienne. It strikes me that you must have a reason to offer me such aid.”

Vivienne’s face remained still, no tell-tale trace of emotion to give Lavellan a clue as to what she was thinking. “You are quite correct in that, my dear. You do not know me, and until recently your name had never been uttered to me before. You must understand what an unprecedented situation the death of Lady Divine has caused. You have, thus far, only inherited Skyhold, but there is more to her inheritance than that. There is no other in line to inherit save for you, unless some other will is procured. And yet, my dear, there is a rumor. One which I take _very_ seriously.”

“And that rumor is?” Lavellan asked with much interest, for though this explanation did little to calm the nerves in her stomach, it did much to explain why she was here.

“The rumor,” Vivienne said, and here her voice dropped even further. “Is that the claimant is of Tevinter. How someone from such a dreadful place would be connected to the Duchess, I do not know. But I have a vested interest in not allowing even a _sliver_ of Lady Divine’s influence and fortune to find its way into the hands of someone from that _place_.”

*

It was not the best of places to loiter, by the punch bowl, but once Vivienne had moved across the room to attend to other party guests, Lavellan found herself less than eager to join in with the rest of the festivities. She was, in many ways, still rather shocked by the evening, and the pace at which things moved in Orlais seemed to be quite beyond the usual sedentary pace by which she preferred things to go. Or perhaps her life as of late had simply been filled with too many turbulent events and she had finally hit the point where she could simply do nothing more than stand by a punch bowl in a pretty party dress and feel like something of a lump.

Someone from Tevinter sought the rest of Lady Divine’s inheritance. She did not understand this, but then she still barely understood how she had come to be given Skyhold as her own.

Still, she did not fully believe Madame de Fer’s explanation, or did not believe it to be the _full_ reasoning. Surely there must be more to it?

But Lavellan had reason enough to dislike Tevinter, and she could understand the desire to not allow someone from there to inherit what was the Duchess’s.

“Lady Lavellan?”

The woman who spoke had a heavy Orlesian accent and short cropped dark hair. She was dressed in the fashion of one from the college, deep blue velvet accented in gold. Lavellan blinked and wondered how long the woman had been trying to get her attention.

“Yes? That is me. I’m afraid you caught me as I was lost in thought.”

The woman smiled at her, though like many of the smiles tonight Lavellan could not tell if it was true or simply the appropriate expression used at the appropriate time. “I have been wanting to meet you. My name is Fiona, Grand Enchanter of the college.”

Lavellan’s eyes went wide. “ _Oh!_ ” she said, for this was a surprise she had not anticipated. She set her drink down; her ring clinked against the glass like a chime. “It is a pleasure, Lady Fiona.”

“I am afraid that I do not have time to speak in such a place, but I had wanted to extend an invitation to you. Should you wish to, I invite you to visit me in Redcliffe. You would be most welcome there.”

“I - would be glad to be received there,” said Lavellan, and Fiona inclined her head before excusing herself, leaving her alone with the punch bowl once more.

*

She could not, of course, fully comprehend what it was that she had stepped into when she inherited Skyhold. Before, the name Lavellan was no more than a name - no weight, no social standing to speak of.

It was terrifying and thrilling to be sought out by such people. More terrifying than before, and she was glad to leave Vivienne’s estate. Her mind was fairly full of all she had met, but at the forefront of all she thought of two things - the town of Redcliffe and a stranger from Tevinter who others thought of as a threat.

It was only a few days past this gather in of Madame Vivienne’s that Cassandra’s business in Val Royeaux was concluded. In truth, Lavellan was glad to be rid of the city. She did not look back at the brightly colored walls and reflecting pools as their carriage took them back to Haven.

 


	6. In which a conversation goes terribly awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Lavellan's friendship with Miss Harding grows. An encounter with Mr. Solas leaves her shaken.

Lavellan and Cassandra returned to Haven without much fanfare. The carriage left Lavellan at Skyhold manor, and she took back to life within her new home in much the same manner as she had prior to her trip to Val Royeaux - awkwardly and with some unease.

But the manor was much improved from how it had been when she first arrived, with repairs made to most of the main rooms. The kitchen, the dining room, the sitting room - all places she would need for entertaining guests were no longer long abandoned messes.

Some of the furniture had been salvaged; tables and dressers and chairs that had been untouched by the elements. She had taken stock of some of the things that would need replacing and - with some input from Bull and his Chargers, though she did not think all of it was said with serious intention - had made a list.

She had, during her time in Orlais, made the necessary arrangements to have new furniture delivered and installed into her manor, some of which had already arrived. Elegant carpet for the front hall had been placed, and the empty space in the sitting and dining rooms had been filled. Her quarters bore a new bed of Orlesian make, the linens bright and warm and new, and a mirror that was not cracked and old. When she looked into it, it only showed herself - her dark skin and her full lips and her hair that did not always take to the finest fashions of the day - and the room, and did not show another glimpse of whoever or whatever the cracked one had shown her weeks before.

Skyhold had begun to look as something that could be presented to others.

And she was not wholly alone in the manor anymore; before she had left, she had made some arrangements for staff, negotiating wages and determining living space. It was so different from how it had been in Wycome, where she had always lived with _family_ and housing had never been so extravagant.

In those first days after returning to Haven, things began to come together in a way that Lavellan was quite unused to - though she _was_ helped quite heavily by Lady Montilyet, who knew far more about the workings of running a household of this type than Lavellan.

Now it was not yet into the dead of winter, and so while it was much preferable to stay within her manor, the town of Haven was had not yet sequestered themselves away indoors. It was chill outside, and the ground seemed near permanently frosted, but it had not yet snowed.

Lavellan found it _quite_ unbearable.

She kept mostly to the smaller rooms of the manor and kept a fire burning at all times, but her fingers and her toes seemed to be constantly cold. She missed the warm wet of the north where it was more liable to rain than to freeze.

She was in the parlor reading - the first pages of Mr. Tethras’ work, which she had forgotten to take with her to Val Royeaux - when there was an arrival at the estate. A ‘Miss Harding’ was announced, and Lavellan was instantly very much at attention, her book forgotten.

“Miss Harding!” she said as the woman came into the parlor. “What a pleasant surprise! Please, have a seat.” After all the brightness and ornamentation of Val Royeaux, seeing someone like Miss Harding felt like a relief. She was dressed so plainly and practically, in a good woolen dress with sturdy boots.

“You’re too kind,” Miss Harding said, but she sat down across from her. She was so small in stature that her toes barely brushed the floor once seated.

Lavellan tucked a marker into her book and set it upon the side table before smiling brightly at Miss Harding.

“I had been hoping that I would see you again,” she told her, quite earnestly. “Though I had rather thought that I would most likely run into you in Haven, not at my estate.”

“Ah, yes.” Miss Harding’s smile had a very sheepish slant to it. “Seeing as all the talk in town is that you’ve returned to Haven - well, not _all_ the talk. Just most of it - and seeing as I always wanted to see what this place looked like, I thought I might as well come by. Also I was caught skulking around the front door, so I had to make it look like I was here to visit.”

Lavellan’s eyebrow rose up in surprise. “That’s quite honest of you.”

“That’s me,” Miss Harding said with a laugh. “Too-honest. Most of the time. And I _did_ want to visit you. Though getting an invitation to a place such as _Skyhold?_ It’s almost too much too imagine. Though Lady Montilyet always invites me to _her_ parties - she’s so lovely.”

“Were you at her party several weeks back? I’m afraid I was quite preoccupied that night and missed you.”

“Oh.” Miss Harding smiled sheepishly. “I was. I was mostly just watching, though. Like I said, Lady Montilyet _invites_ me to her parties - I’m just not the _best_ at parties.”

Lavellan gave a soft laugh. “I should tell you a secret, then - I am _terrible_ at parties myself. I’m quite uncertain about what to do, but everyone is quite kind in providing me with direction. Perhaps, next time that we attend the same party, we can be terrible at parties together!”

Miss Harding gave a crack of laughter. “ _That_ would be far too kind of you. And I’d like that. A lot.”

They sat in silence for a few moments after that, before Miss Harding kicked her legs before her, idly rustling her skirts.

“ _Sooo,_ ” she said, the word long and drawn out. “How are you liking Skyhold, Lady Lavellan?”

And that was a question, was it not? Lavellan felt like she had been asked that more times than she could count in only the short time she had lived there.

“It is far grander than any place I have lived,” she said truthfully. “But it is also something of a derelict. What you see here is the result of very careful staging and far too much input from others.”

“Really?”

There was a curious, hopeful note in Miss Harding’s voice. Lavellan thought she had an idea what it meant.

“Would you like a tour of the manor, Miss Harding? Of the areas that are safe for one to step within, of course.”

“ _Would I?_ ” Miss Harding’s face had turned alight as she spoke. “That would be _amazing_. You know, I always wanted to see the inside of this place. It was always this foreboding, kind of spooky place up on the hill.”

Lavellan laughed. “It _is_ rather spooky, isn’t it?”

Though she did not tell her that she was quite serious when she said that it was spooky; it was not at all a joke.

She took Miss Harding on a tour of the manor, showing her the places that were not in a state of disarray. But Harding was an inquisitive sort, wanting to see behind every door and out every window, and eventually they came to the east wing, which was barred off.

“What’s in here?” she asked, and did not wait for Lavellan to speak before opening the heavy oak door.

“That’s...well. I’m not sure what it was supposed to be. It’s a wreck now, that’s for certain,” Lavellan said as they looked into the ruined interior of a large room. She had briefly been inside, long enough to determine that some of the floor had rotted and that the rooms that stretched away from this one were in similar states of decay.

“How old _is_ this place?” Miss Harding mused aloud, and Lavellan had no answer for that.

“Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house. It’s _far_ less liable to fall down around you,” she said, and ushered Miss Harding down the hall. She had gone only a few feet when she remembered that she had not shut the door, but a heavy _thud_ and _click_ behind her alerted her to it’s shutting.

But Miss Harding was walking right next to her, nowhere near the door.

Lavellan laughed, though she did not feel in good humor. “Oh, weighted doors. They close themselves; such a great invention to keep the drafts from running through the entire house!”

Miss Harding, to her credit, looked at her skeptically, but said no more on the matter.

***

Morning found Lavellan in the heart of Haven, walking the streets in the early chill. She had business to attend to with various people, and she had started with Lady Montilyet. Paperwork, she had quickly found, was incredibly tedious, and legal jargon was an entirely different beast from academic papers of a magical nature. She found that attempting to parse through legalities quickly made her head ache, but she found it marginally easier to understand when Lady Montilyet laid it out for her.

That, and Lady Montilyet knew the ins and outs of the law in a way Lavellan was, frankly, astounded by. Given that it was her profession, it was expected, but she had a stunning head for legality and politics the likes of which Lavellan had never encountered before. That she had begun to take to Lavellan as a friend made it far easier to speak to her of matters that arose.

She spent the first hours of the morning sitting with Lady Montilyet, and it was nearing mid-morning when she finally left, heavy sheaves of papers in her arms. Her mind was fairly abuzz with thoughts, and while she was still not at all fond of the coldness of the south, she had to admit that the icy air on her face did wonders to clear her head.

As she had not yet made the necessary arrangements to acquire one, Lavellan did not have her own carriage, and at any rate the walk from Skyhold to Haven was not unbearable, though it often lead to her nose turning alarmingly cold. Still, she was in no rush to leave the town for her home and she _did_ have an appointment with Lady Leliana for the afternoon, so she found herself idly wandering Haven.

It was a pretty town. Quaint, compared to Val Royeaux, and built mostly of hewn stone. The newer buildings were of wood, built sturdily. Gas lamps stood at the street corners, though in the light of the day they remained unlit.

She took her time in strolling through the town, observing those who had made it their home for far longer, but eventually the chill caught up to her and she decided to take shelter within the only tea room in Haven - a small place, shabby compared to anything in Val Royeaux, but respectable in its own right..

It is here that she once more encountered Mr. Solas.

She did not notice him at first, when she entered the room. She was preoccupied by pulling her scarf loose and tugging her gloves from her fingers at the sudden warmth that greeted her once she was inside.

The room was sparsely populated, only a few occupants that she could see. She nearly missed him, and would not have noticed at all if she had not looked twice.

He sat in the corner, far away from everyone else, and while at first he appeared to be very absorbed in a large book, she realized at second glance that he was drawing. Or so he seemed to be, until he caught her gaze. He stilled, and Lavellan very quickly looked away, as though afraid to be caught staring. But as she continued about her business in the shop, she stole several small glances his way, and on more than one occasion she found him also looking at her.

He had a very intense, somewhat disquieting look.

But Lavellan was not one to simply ignore such things, and she decided that if a man she had only met several times was to steal glances at her in a tea shop, she might as well go and say hello.

“Mr. Solas,” she said as she stepped over to where he sat; he looked up from his sketchbook as though he had _not_ just been watching her. “I am surprised to see you out and about. How have you been faring?”

For a moment, some indefinable emotion seemed to pass over his face, but it was gone before she could get a sense of what it was. This close, she could see that he was sketching - or had been - with slim charcoal pencils. He set the one had been using down and closed the cover of the book he had been sketching in before she could see what he had been drawing.

“Quite well. And you, Lady Lavellan? You have been absent from Haven for some time.”

“Ah, I see that gossip about me still spreads.” She did not wait for an invitation but instead sat down in the chair across from him, setting her papers down heavily upon the table. He raised an eyebrow - whether at her impertinence or at the sound the stack of paper made when it dropped, she could not tell.

“By all means, do join me for tea,” he said dryly. Lavellan looked at the table, which was bare save for her papers and his sketchbook.

“Non-existent tea, I see. It is a good thing that I have already ordered some for myself. You are welcome to it if you would like. I can always ask for a second cup.”

She did not imagine the way his lip curled in disgust.

“I _detest_ tea,” he said, and she could not help a small laugh at how he said it.

“And yet you are sitting in a place filled with tea. Though hidden away in the corner, drawing. Curious.”

“It is a relatively quiet place. Would you suggest I go elsewhere to draw?”

Lavellan thought for a very brief moment. “If it was not so frigid outside, then I would. But this seems like an acceptable place.”

They were interrupted briefly by the arrival of her tea, and she gave Mr. Solas an asking look - but he shook his head slightly and she did not request a second cup.

Still, the tea was warm, the heat through the teacup bringing warmth back into her fingertips. She was appreciative to simply sit there and forget about the bitter chill of the outdoors for a time.

“How did you find Val Royeaux?” Mr. Solas asked her after a moment, and Lavellan hesitated for a time before responding. She looked down at her tea as though it provided some sort of answer.

“It was the largest city I have ever seen,” she said, clicking her ring against the porcelain of the teacup. “It seemed very beautiful at first glance.”

“And at second glance? What did you see then?”

Lavellan looked up from her tea. He was regarding her carefully, with that closed off expression she had seen on his face before.

“You cannot have such a beautiful seeming city without something less than shining behind it,” she said. “I saw the industrial district, and it was...not as bad as Kirkwall’s, though mind you this is only from having briefly seen each.”

“Val Royeaux puts on veneer of civility,” Mr. Solas said, folding his hands before him on top of his sketchbook. She noticed smudges of charcoal long the outside of his left hand. “It is a ruse, nothing more, to save the face of a society so built upon the backs of others.”

“I thought much the same.” She set down her tea cup gently, contemplating the addition of sugar, though she was not fond of overly sweet things.. “I would venture that most of the elite of society have not bothered to visit the worse parts of the city, and would prefer not to think that they exist.” She decided that, yes, the tea would do well with a touch of sweetness, and she stirred in a small spoonful. “Though I noticed that in a number of my encounters in the city - that the elite seemed to ignore or dismiss those things they found to be outside of their preferred world view. They do not often see one of the dalish in a position such as I have found myself in - so they ignored me save for when they could not, or for when it benefited them.”

He made a noise deep in his throat. “You are correct in that; they do not like to see those who remind them of things they would prefer to forget.”

She looked at him then, sitting there across from her, and the curiosity she had held about him since that second meeting came back. She knew precious little about him, and what she did know what often contradictory at best - a seemingly poor artist without station who yet walked and mingled with those of the higher society of Haven. Who seemed to have an extraordinary amount of knowledge and yet who claimed not to be educated through the university or through the college. Who, at first glance, had struck her as someone who should share kinship with her people.

Lady Lavellan then, full of that curiosity, said something which she quickly realized was a grave mistake.

“You told me you are not dalish,” she said, lifting her teacup to take another sip. “Yet you have the look of one of our people, and you speak as one who once called the Dales home would.” She took a moment to phrase the question which sat upon the tip of her tongue, but before she could say it aloud, Mr. Solas spoke.

“ _Our people_ ,” he said, and there was a edge to how he spoke that she could not understand. “You use that phrase so casually when you should not - it used to mean so much more. It should mean so much more.”

That edge in his voice - it grew as he spoke. There was a touch of anger there that had not been in his words before - what he said, it was an accusation. She stilled, the tea cup held inches from her mouth, and she felt something twist within her chest. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“The dalish are like children,” he said, and she could not - or would not dare to - understand his tone. “Pretending to be something they cannot even comprehend. They tell stories that they have mangled and retold a thousand times over, until they have lost all truth. _Our_ people? No, _I_ am not one of your people.”

Lavellan’s lips parted; for a moment, speech was stolen from her by the stirrings of outrage. That twisting in her chest grew, tight and upset, like a weight tied within her ribcage.

“You insult my people,” she said, and she took great care to try to restrain her tone but could not. Her voice cracked, and the teacup shook in her hand.

“They insult themselves,” he replied, and oh how that weight in her chest grew.

The skin of his hands had gone white from how hard he clenched them before himself, but she did not care to notice that detail. It was good that there were few within the room to listen, or that few cared to, for though they each still spoke lowly to one another, there was no sense of camaraderie left within their conversation.

“Well,” she said, and her tone was like a brittle knife, words that stuck within her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Solas, for so eloquently answering the question I posed to you on our second meeting. ”

He blinked, as though confused, the seeming change to the conversation throwing him. “And what question was that?”

“I asked you what your impression of me was,” she said, and there was a change on his face - surprise that flashed across it, followed by realization before she even spoke her next words. “And you have now answered that very clearly.”

“I -”

“No, that is quite all right. I do not believe I need to hear it.” She rose somewhat unsteadily, hands shakily pulling all her papers into a neater stack than they were before, the intent to leave growing in her mind. “In fact, I am _certain_ I do not need to hear it. You speak as though you are dismissing my people and myself for attempting to hold onto what identity we still have, after having been stripped of our home and had our own history destroyed. And _that_ is something I do not need to hear. We may not be perfect, Mr. Solas, we may tell what stories we have and cling to what culture and history we have left, and we may not live up to whatever standard it is that you seem to hold us to, but we are _trying_ to survive. What course could _you_ provide for us that is better than the one we are on?”

She did not mean it as a true question; it was rhetorical at best, and now she began to wind her scarf around her neck and pull her gloves onto her hands. Mr. Solas had given a start when she rose from her chair. Something had changed in his face, but she did not care to identify what it was.

“Wait,” he said as she began to angrily tug at her left glove as it caught on her ring, refusing to settle fully onto her hand. “Forgive me, you are right. I -”

“Yes,” she said, for her anger had not yet abated. “I am.” She gave one more sharp tug and her glove finally slid all the way on.

And then, as she reached down to gather up her papers, he said something in the language of her people and she froze. “ _Ir abelas_ ,” he said, and it was the first words of her language that she had heard since leaving Wycome. “You are right, of course. I cannot expect the dalish to know what has been lost. I spoke in error. You seemed as though you had questions, before. Ask me what you will; I will answer.”

There was a part of her that was gratified by hearing his apology in the words of her first tongue, but it was not enough.

“No,” she said then. “I do not think I want to ask you anything. Good day, Mr. Solas.”

She stood and she walked out and she did not look back at him.

***

His words stuck with her for the rest of the day, resounding in her head and bothering her at the oddest moments. By all rights, she should have put in out of her mind instantly, but she found that she could not.

He was not dalish; he had said as much from the first moments of their meeting, but even without that he was one of the only people like her in Haven and she had supposed a - not kinship, but a shared understanding. Someone that she could have at least spoken to, who could have understood her discomfort in Val Royeaux in a way Cassandra had not.

Perhaps it was that expectation that made his words sting all the worse. That he thought so little of her people and would say it to her face? It _hurt_ , and her anger sat under her breastbone all day, a painful wound that festered.

She was _dalish_. She was fiercely, proudly dalish, even removed from her people and family as she was. And she was used to what being dalish meant - distrust and whispers, people who did not understand or looked on in distaste. When Cassandra had come with Lavellan to purchase dresses in Val Royeaux, she had helped to offset some of what could have happened, but still Lavellan had heard whispers. That those in Haven accepted her at all was surprising - that Madame de Fer had felt someone dalish a better successor to Lady Divine’s wealth than someone from Tevinter likely said more about how poorly she regarded Tevinter than how well she regarded the dalish.

Once, the dalish had their own land, their own status, their own voice - they could stand toe to toe with the other powers of the land and could not be cowed. And yet those lands which had been given to Lord Shartan, so long ago, had been taken back under political duress and left the people who had lived there with nothing.

Did they misremember? Lavellan could not say for certain, but this she knew: when the Dales were stolen, their libraries had been burned, their treaties lost, the entirety of what they had taken by force. If they sought to hold dear to what little they had left, Lavellan could find no fault in that. That Solas could -

She wanted to put him and his words from her mind. She wanted to, but they lingered. She wished, so dearly, that he had said anything but what he had.

Even her meeting with Lady Leliana could not put him and his words from her mind, and by the time she returned to Skyhold the knot in her chest had barely loosened. She had little desire to speak to anyone else for the day.

But when she arrived home, she did find a happy surprise, for the post had come while she was out, and one letter in particular brought an instant lifting to her spirits.

She snatched it up from the table and moved to the sitting room, opening it before the fireplace where she could warm her cold toes and fingers while reading at the same time. The paper was heavy parchment, slightly tattered, and with the signs of water damage - though the writing remained legible.

The letter read:

 

> _Lady Lavellan,_
> 
> _We made it up to the coast with no trouble, though there’s plenty of trouble now that we’re here. Bull’s gone and got himself all excited about this, which is great for the troops. You would love it up here, though; it’s all coastline and trees. And rain. It hasn’t stopped raining since we arrived. I guess that’s winter up here for you._
> 
> _How’s Val Royeaux treating you? You’ve taken to this lady business like you were born to it. Be careful, though; that place is dangerous, even at the best of times._
> 
> _Chief says we’ll be heading back down to Haven as soon as we take care of things up here. The big lug says it seems a good place to make our base for now, and I agree. Should only be a few weeks. We’ll be back before you can miss us._
> 
> _Chief and the other’s send their greetings. Loudly._
> 
> _Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi_

 

It wasn’t much; just a short letter, the date at the top telling her it had taken a good week to get to her. But to hear even a little from a dear friend was exactly what she needed. Seeing Krem’s familiar writing eased the knot in her chest.

She reread the letter once more before setting it to the side; she contemplated writing in return. Perhaps in the morning, when she had rested, for her mind was still tense and upset and she did not wish to put ink to paper yet.

That night, as she began to fall into sleep, she made the decision to put Solas and his words from her mind and give them no more thought.

She did not know how hard that would be, particularly when less than a week later Mr. Varric Tethras held his own party where the two of them - Lady Lavellan and Mr. Solas - encountered each other once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Lavellan's argument at the end is very closely patterned after the exchange they have in-game the first time you try to ask him his opinion on elves. In terms of period drama relationship structures, I'm setting these two up a bit along the lines of a couple like Elizabeth and Darcy from _Pride and Prejudice_ or Margaret and Thornton from _North & South_. Which means a tumultuous start with disagreements of opinion and belief.


	7. In which there is an attempt at an understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Varric Tethras hosts a celebratory party, which is an ordeal for most everyone invited.

Mr. Tethras was a very important man. He had made for himself all the sort of connections that a merchant trying to keep his family in good social standing should, he had - or so rumor told - the ear of many people whose opinion was of great weight, and he was a writer of note. He was a friendly, gregarious man whose sense of humor was unmatched and who had a way of putting everyone at ease.

 _Most_ everyone, for Lavellan noted that Cassandra had done nothing but glare suspiciously at him for the beginning of the evening.

It was a most curious dance, to be certain. Mr. Tethras was doing his best to entertain guests at dinner - regaling them with stories and tales that had most laughing. But Cassandra, though her mouth would twitch in what Lavellan was _certain_ the beginnings of a smile, continued to narrow her eyes as though the man’s existence alone was distasteful.

This was something she had noticed each time that the two interacted: Cassandra would eye him with disdain and Mr. Tethras would attempt to act as though nothing at all was the matter, and it was as though there was some sort of incredibly fragile peace between them.

Lady Lavellan knew better than to poke too much at such things. What lay between them could have been anything from a miscommunication to an actual deep-seated grudge, and she, though curious, was not certain if she wanted to press either of them for more information.

She certainly would not want anyone pressing _her_ for more information as to why she was studiously ignoring a certain man who sat only several places away from her.

She was, of course, not looking at him. She had not spoken to him, not even a polite greeting. The sting of his insults still sat upon her heart, and Lavellan did not want to forget them. Or, rather, she did not wish to forget and act as though nothing had happened.

“Tell me, Mr. Tethras,” she said over the second course of dinner. “You have such _exciting_ stories of Kirkwall. Now, I have only briefly been there, and while I have heard the name before, could you tell me - this Champion you keep speaking of, is she, in fact, real?”

Mr. Tethras made a scandalized noise. “Is she _real?_ Now, Lady Lavellan, you wound me. Would I lie to you about the Champion of Kirkwall?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Cassandra said from her seat, and there was a moment where Mr. Tethras’ bright smile faltered.

“Now, now, Lady Seeker. I _elaborate_. I don’t lie. There is a subtle difference there.” Mr. Tethras’ smile returned to his face. “But yes, Lady Lavellan, the Champion of Kirkwall is quite real, and a very dear friend. She’s gone off to do one thing or another somewhere up north - possibly Ansburg, I really couldn’t tell you. But Lady Hawke _is_ real, and my stories are elaborately told truths.”

Cassandra’s noise of disgust could be heard around the table. Now Lavellan was not entirely certain on ever rule of polite society, but she was fairly certain one was not supposed to make such sounds of distaste during a meal.

Mr. Tethras made a great show of ignoring it, deciding instead to move forward with his own plans. “ _Now_ , I suppose you are all wondering why I have invited you here tonight! And you won’t have to wait any longer to find out. As my closest _friends_ -” And here he gave a rather pointed glance towards Cassandra, which Lavellan felt was in rather poor taste. “- in Haven, I wanted you all to be the first to know that I will be publishing my third serial! Yes, that is right, though I am still finishing _Hard in Hightown_ , the first installment of my newest work will be published this very month!”

“That is wonderful, Mr. Tethras!” Lavellan said.

“And just _what_ is this new work called?”

Mr. Tethras gave what was likely a _very_ inappropriate wink. “ _That_ , my Lady Seeker, is not something for your very polite company. Needless to say, it is _certain_ to be a hit.”

*

“I _swear_ , I am going to wring his neck,” Cassandra said, when they had all retired to the sitting room. There were not many of them; it was a properly small party, just enough for what a celebration of a publishing should be.

“I would strongly advise against that,” said Commander Rutherford, and Lavellan was inclined to agree with him.

“That is uncustomary of you, General, advising _against_ physical violence.”

Commander Rutherford gave a small laugh. “Lady Pentaghast, there is hardly a call for physical violence here. Mr. Tethras is entirely filled with bluster, but he is harmless.”

“You two seem to be quite at odds,” Lavellan said. Cassandra gave a frustrated sigh. She turned her gaze across the room to where the man in question was talking animatedly with Lady Montilyet and Lady Leliana. And Mr. Solas, Lavellan quickly realized as she followed Cassandra’s gaze.

She was not fast enough in turning her gaze to something else; he looked up and for the briefest moment their eyes locked. Lavellan felt her cheeks heat; remnants of anger and embarrassment coming back to her.

“Let us talk of something _other_ than Varric Tethras,” Cassandra said. “Lady Lavellan, have you given thought to the invitation to Redcliffe you told me of?”

“Oh, yes. That.” Lavellan found herself temporarily thrown.

“An invitation to _Redcliffe?_ ” Commander Rutherford sounded surprised. “Surely not.”

“She was invited by Lady Fiona herself,” Cassandra said, and there was most certainly even _more_ surprise upon Commander Rutherford’s face at that, but his expression quickly shuttered.

“A political move, no doubt. Lady Fiona has been seeking allies as of late. You should be wary of her, Lady Lavellan.”

“I will keep that in mind, Commander,” Lavellan said politely. Across the room, there was the sound of laughter; she glanced over and saw that Mr. Tethras had apparently convinced Lady Leliana to sing, and she had drawn Lady Montilyet over to the pianoforte to accompany her. “I _have_ given it thought, however, and I believe that I would do well to gain her acquaintance, no matter if it is a political ploy.”

A bright song filled the room; again, Lavellan glanced over. Leliana had a gorgeous voice, brilliant and shining, and Lady Montilyet played the piano far better than Lavellan could ever hope to. But as she looked over, she noticed that Mr. Solas was no longer at the side of Mr. Tethras. He was, for the moment, nowhere to be seen.

It did not matter, of course. Lavellan had no reason to be concerned with him. No reason at all.

She had written to Krem the morning following her altercation with him, and angrily outlined what had happened. She had been angry enough that there had been two versions of the letter - one, which she consigned to flames quickly that had painted a very unflattering version of what had occurred. The second had been full of less vitriol than the first and she had left out all identifying names. That letter she had sent off with the morning post, and she had felt much better about the entire ordeal after.

Now, however, being under the same roof as the man, Lavellan felt on edge once more.

As Leliana continued her song, a smile grew upon Cassandra’s face. “It is good to hear her sing again,” she said softly.

“She does have a beautiful voice,” Lavellan agreed. Across the room, Lady Montilyet gave a laugh and the tempo of the piano increased, which Leliana matched perfectly.

“She used to sing more, before...before the death of Lady Divine,” Cassandra said. “It is good that Mr. Tethras enticed her to sing. I suppose he _does_ have his uses.”

“Do - do you sing, Lady Lavellan?” Commander Rutherford asked, and when Lavellan turned her head to look at him, she could nearly swear that there was a flush upon his cheeks. A trick of the light, surely.

“Not at all, Commander. At least, nothing which I would dare sing here.”

“Surely there could be no objection to you singing.”

Lavellan shook her head with a smile. “You would likely not care for the songs of my homeland. No, Commander, I do not sing. Though I might pose the same question to you?”

He _was_ flushing, she was certain of it! He had gone quite red, the color bright along his neck and cheeks, and she was delighted to note that his ears were red as well. She wondered if this was not a question that was proper to ask of a gentleman she had only recently met.

“I, ah. I sing little. A little. I sing a little, my lady.”

“ _I_ do not sing,” Cassandra said, anticipating that the question would be put to her next. “It is not among my virtues.”

“Then it is a good thing that Lady Leliana is doing the singing for all of us!” Lavellan smiled. Behind them, laughter sounded again; Leliana joined Lady Montilyet at the pianoforte, both of them playing a lively song.

“Lady Lavellan, a word if I may?”

The voice was unexpected and Lavellan felt herself stiffen instantly. She ought not to have left her back to the room, she thought.

“I am in the middle of a conversation, Mr. Solas,” she said without turning to look at him. Her mouth had gone quite dry. “We can speak another time.”

Her voice was, perhaps, a touch too harsh, or perhaps not looking at him when she spoke went against a rule of social engagement. For she saw something upon the faces of both Cassandra and Commander Rutherford - not curiosity, but a way that their eyes narrowed. Lavellan drew in a breath that was too shallow, steeled herself, and turned to address him further.

But he had already backed away, inclining his head ever so slightly. “My apologies, my lady. Another time, then.”

Oh, but she did not like that. She felt that, if there were to be words said, she would like them to happen tonight, before she had too long a chance to dwell upon what he might say. Before she had a chance to invent further insults that he might have to sling upon her.

“Mr. Solas, wait,” she said, and then she did something that she ought not to. To keep him from leaving, she reached out and caught him by the wrist.

It took her only a moment to realize she should not have done that. He looked at her, his eyes gone just wide enough to show his surprise; to her side, Commander Rutherford made a small noise.

She released him instantly. “Excuse me, please, Lady Cassandra, Commander Rutherford. Mr. Solas, perhaps we could take a turn about the room?”

She hoped, oh, she _hoped_ that she had covered for that well enough. Taking to this business of being a lady of society like she was born to it? Either Krem had been flattering her to make her feel better, or he had no idea how often she felt herself to be making mistakes.

Mr. Solas nodded slowly. “Of course.”

She carefully did not touch him as they moved away from the rest. Carefully, they made their way around the periphery of the room, until they were far enough from all the other attendants of Mr. Tethras’ party. They came to a stop near the window, where the drapery was pulled back from the glass to show only the blue-black of the night sky. Lavellan delicately clasped her hands behind her back, keeping careful distance between them as she angled her body towards the window.

“You wished to speak to me?” she prompted when he remained silent longer than she thought he should have.

“I did,” he said, and though he stood next to her, he, too, was careful to keep distance between them. “I have thought about what you said, when last we spoke.”

Lavellan drew in a sharp breath, too shallow still as her corset caught at her chest. “I see. And what did you think about, in regards to what I said?” There were harsher, angrier words that curled upon her tongue, but she bite them down. She did not want to fight, not here, not with Leliana’s lovely song filling the air and acquaintances who were swiftly becoming friends in the same room.

“You were correct, in what you said. I am afraid that I did not impress upon you at the time that the apology I offered you was true.”

Lavellan swallowed down bitter words. Again, she drew in a breath, and she did not look at him as she spoke. Instead, she looked at the window - there, she saw herself dimly mirrored against the glass, and beside her she could see him as well. It was, somehow, easier to speak this way; to see him and his face, but only a warped reflection of it.

“How can I accept an apology that was made so soon after such insults were given?” she asked him, instead of any of the sharper things she wanted to say. “I can hardly think that I changed your mind within only moments.”

She heard him exhale, as though he had been holding his breath as well. “I had misspoken.”

And that made her turn her head, to look at him face to face. “Had you? It did not seem to me that you had. You made yourself _quite_ clear.”

A furrow developed upon his brow, and Lavellan felt the jump-skip of her heart. She turned back to the window.

“It is my turn to apologize. I fear that I am somewhat...sensitive about this matter. Speak, if you will. I will listen.”

She saw his reflection shift as he brought both his hands behind his back.

“I misspoke,” he said again, and how she wished he would stop saying that! But she did not speak, though her eyes narrowed. “You no doubt realized that I wished to distance myself from the dalish; as I said, I am not of them. But I was thoughtless in how I phrased it. Your people are spread thin upon this land, and I cannot expect them to be anything more than what they are. They are trying, and more than that…” He paused then, and here he looked away from her. “You are not what I expected, when I had heard it was a dalish woman who had inherited Skyhold.”

“And what _did_ you expect?” Still, she felt tense and mistrustful. Her words were sharper than she mean. “Tell me, what sort of _dalish_ did you _think_ I was?”

He made a noise in his throat. “Unsurprisingly. You are not truly willing to listen to what I have to say.”

“I have no reason to listen to you, Mr. Solas. That I am standing here should be enough. If it is not, then please, tell me, for I would dearly love to rejoin Commander Rutherford and Lady Cassandra.”

She turned then, as though to make good upon that. But Mr. Solas sighed and inclined his head.

“Please. Allow me to speak, and then by all means, go. What I expected, when Lady Divine died and a previously unknown heir was announced, was for it to be someone who had no skill for the position they found themselves in, and who would have, all too quickly, found themselves beset by those wishing to further their own cause.”

Lavellan gave a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “And yet you describe me perfectly, Mr. Solas, for I have no skill for society and I am most certainly set upon by those who care only for their own agenda.”

“I had not finished,” he said then, and now they did not view each other only through the reflection in the window but looked at each other directly. “And you have, in fact, only proven right what I had though. You say you have no skill for this, Lady Lavellan, but you have a far greater grasp of it than you realize. That you realize those who seek your acquaintance do so primarily to further their own gains is proof enough of that.”

Again, she laughed. “It is not only a trait of those of society, to realize when others are attempting to use them. Surely you know this.”

He blinked. “Ah. Of course. You are right, it is not something limited only to those of high standing.”

Lavellan look at him for a long moment. It was not enough. She pressed her lips together and clamped down on bitter words.

“I believe that you are trying to apologize,” she said. “If that is truly in earnest, then...I suppose it will suffice.”

She meant it, if only a little. She did not wish to fight, though she had not truly forgiven him his earlier insult. But at her words he...smiled. Not much, but a small smile curled his lips, softening the angles of his face. She felt, quite unexpectedly, a twisting in the location of her stomach.

“I - should return,” she said then, gesturing towards Commander Rutherford and Lady Cassandra, who still stood against the far wall, speaking lowly with one another.

“A moment more, if you will?”

Lavellan paused. She regarded him carefully for a long minute before she nodded.

“You should be prepared, in case someone were to challenge your claim to Skyhold,” he said then, and again her stomach leapt.

“I have already been warned, but thank you. Now -”

“Lady Lavellan?”

A second interruption, in much the same way. This time, she turned to see Commander Rutherford and his open, kind face.

“Excuse me, Mr. Solas.” She nodded to him and did not give him time to protest before she took her leave and moved to where the Commander waited.

“Is anything amiss, my lady?” Commander Rutherford asked her as they crossed the room to rejoin Cassandra.

“Oh, not at all,” Lavellan said with a smile. She had no desire to explain to anyone what, exactly, had passed between her and Mr. Solas. “Everything is quite all right.”

*

That night, as she settled down to sleep, Lavellan tried not to think about her encounter with Mr. Solas. But she did, unable to shake it from her mind.

His apology and attempted explanation had been...unsatisfactory, at best. He had not been as outwardly insulting, but his words had still grated. She was uncertain what, precisely, he had been trying to say.

Still, he had tried to apologize. Poorly done, but an apology was something. And he had thought upon it for some time, making it a little more than the apology he had spoken when he had first angered her.

 _Oh_ , but she wished that Bull and his Chargers were here, and that she could tell him and Krem her woes and let them laugh and tell her that this man was an idiot and that she would be right to forget him. She wanted, desperately, for one strong moment, to be able to go home to Wycome, to where her clan had lived upon the mire that surrounded the city.

But Skyhold was her home now, as was Haven. She could not go back, not now.

As she drifted into an uneasy sleep, she felt the same sense of strangeness that she had experienced several times before within the manor. It could have been simply the way that sleep clung to her, or perhaps it was something more - but she had the strongest sense of something watching her, and it made her skin crawl and made her toss and turn upon her mattress.

In the early hours of the morning, as she tried to sleep for just a little longer, she thought she heard a voice, though she could not tell if it was real or simply within a dream. When she woke, she could not remember what was said, only a feeling. And this did not sit well with her, for it was the strongest feeling of envy she had ever experienced, and she could not tell what had provoked it.

It was that morning that she decided she would accept the invitation to visit Lady Fiona in Redcliffe.


	8. In which Lavellan meets Lord Dorian Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan has an astounding conversation about magical academia with two men from Tevinter.

Redcliffe was not a far journey from Haven, at least when compared to a Val Royeaux. It was located in the Hinterlands valley on the shore of Lake Calenhad, and it was, by all accounts, a beautiful city.

The carriage ride from Haven to Redcliffe did not take long - only a day to descend into the valley, and Lady Lavellan quite enjoyed it. The air changed from the crisp cold of the mountains to the still cold yet thicker and wetter climate of the lowlands.

She had meant to visit the Hinterlands, ever since Miss Harding had mentioned she could find someone to care for her horses there. As her carriage passed through the sparsely wooded forests that turned into rolling plains dotted with farms, Lavellan though of how quaint and charming the lands were. Here and there, some trees still clung to their autumn leaves, bright fire bursts of red among the skeletal white of those who had already shed their year’s growth and the bushy evergreens.

Redcliffe had once been no more than a simple fishing village which had, over the years, become the shining hub of society in southern Ferelden. It was far more modern than Haven, and as her carriage came into view of the city she heard a loud whistle pierce the air, followed by a loud mechanical sound as a train pulled away from the station.

It was a shame that the railway did not yet connect to Haven, or to any Orlesian city at that. She had heard that the Ferelden railway connected its greatest cities, significantly decreasing the amount of time it took to travel from one end of the land to the other. Orlais was much the same, but the connecting rails had not yet been finished.

Lady Fiona’s estate - or rather, her son’s - lay on the far outskirts of the city, though still before the land swept away into more farmland. It was a beautiful estate upon the edge of the lake, built of brick and mortar. As Lavellan was helped from the carriage, carefully balancing her luggage, she was able to see the old castle ruin that was built out into the center of the lake. It was long abandoned, from what she had heard, and now only a shell that some supposed was haunted by ghosts.

She arrived at Lady Fiona’s estate in the late afternoon, only to be told that the enchanter was out and would be returning shortly. Lavellan supposed that was to be expected; after all, she had accepted the invitation on short notice, and while she had sent ahead a missive as to when she would arrive, she could not expect a college enchanter to be waiting.

She was given a brief tour of the estate, afterwhich she was left to her own devices. Not content to simply sit and wait, Lady Lavellan decided to entertain herself in the library.

Lavellan was not an uneducated women, though growing up in Wycome to a dalish family of little social standing meant that she had not had access to the sort of resources the upper crust of society had. Until coming to Skyhold, she had learned where she could and read what was available to her, and while she had longed to delve into the scientific papers that came out of the magical colleges of both Orlais and Tevinter, she had only been able to read the odd one that made its way into wide circulation. Her meager spending money, as a youth, had gone towards buying what semi-annual compilation of studies that was made available to the public.

So a library at the home of an enchanter of such note as Fiona was something of a dream brought to life. The shelves stretched up, filled to the very top, and while it was not, she supposed, as impressive as the library at an actual college or university, it was still magnificent.

As large as it was, she did not realize at first that she was not alone. She had paused by one stack to examine a copy of Enchanter Amell’s _An Ethical Approach to Entropic Studies_ when she heard the sound of laughter from behind the shelf.

“That is simply _preposterous_ , my dear Felix. The mere thought of attempting to circumvent the magical cost in such a manner is laughable at best.”

It was such a curious, intriguing statement that Lavellan, never one to ignore discussion of a magical nature - though often one to act as though she did not understand what was being discussed - moved to poke her head around the end of the shelf.

Two men sat at a table before a large stained glass window, a plethora of books spread out before them. They were both of them young men, perhaps her age or younger, and they were dressed in a distinctly northern fashion. One, whose nose was ostensibly stuck in a book, was pale and thin, with hair cut very close to his head and a stunning yellow coat. The second, a man whose skin was as dark as hers, had his hair cropped in what she could only call high Tevinter fashion and sported a very impressive moustache. He had discarded his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his waistcoat was cut from an elegantly embroidered cloth that looked far too light for southern winter fashions.

“I’m not saying it’s an exact solution, simply that it is a possibly theory,” said the first man, setting down his book. “Really, Dorian, do you have to dismiss _every_ suggestion that I make?”

“Only when they are utterly illogical.” Still, he was smiling brightly as though it was all a jest. Then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. For a brief moment, surprise flitted across his face, quickly to be erased by a stunning smile. “Oh, _hello._ It appears we have a visitor!”

With her chance to eavesdrop further gone, Lavellan stepped fully out into the alcove. The light streaming in through the window hit the second man’s waistcoat as he stood to meet her, and the reflection nearly blinded her; it was then that she realized he had so many buttons and fastenings upon his clothing that it turned them almost entirely to silver.

“Dorian Pavus,” he said, extending his hand to her. Having so recently made a fool of herself by taking the hand - no, wrist - of a man in public, Lavellan was hesitant. But a greeting was a greeting, and a handshake in the north had been no problem at all. So Lavellan reached out and shook his hand.

“It’s _Lord_ Dorian Pavus, technically. And I am Felix Alexius,” the man in the yellow coat said, and he shook her hand as well.

“Also a lord,” Dorian said, smiling winningly. “But please, just _Dorian_ will do. And you must be Lady Lavellan of Skyhold. Enchanter Fiona said that you would be joining us soon.”

“I’m afraid that I wasn’t told that I would be meeting anyone save for Lady Fiona here,” she said. Felix swept hand towards a third chair at the table, and she took a seat beside him. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you both from Tevinter?”

Dorian laughed. “Was it our wicked demeanours and dastardly moustaches that gave us away? Yes, yes, we are from Tevinter.”

“We’re here on...ahem, academic purposes,” Felix said, pausing in the middle of his sentence to clear his throat. “And only you have a dastardly moustache, Dorian.”

“You’re students?” Lavellan asked, only somewhat surprised. Though she had only met them, given their discussion she had no trouble imagining them as such.

“From the College of Minrathous,” Dorian said. “Felix here is in his final year and is quite determined to achieve the status of Magister. I, on the other hand, am quite content to remain an Altus for the time being.”

“Because no one will fund your research except my father,” Felix said, and the look that Dorian gave his friend was _quite_ put out.

“That is - it’s not that simple, Felix, and you know it.”

Now Lavellan was only mildly familiar with how the magical collegiate system worked in Tevinter. She knew that it differed greatly from how it was in Orlais and Ferelden, where limitations upon magic were far stricter and admittance to the College of Magi was mandatory for any magic user.

That was, of course, where the great flaw in the southern collegiate system showed greatest. All those who showed signs of magic were required, by law, to attend the College of Magi, which was an insular, strictly regimented system. Insular, in that apprentices were not to appear in society until they had achieved enchanter status - which, the worse cases, meant that from a young age when magic first manifested and for potentially decades, a magic user would be locked away from the outside world. From family, friends, and all but those within the college. And should someone wish to not attend the college and hid their magic...the punishments for such things were quite strict. It was not so simple as one day deciding to attend, and as such Lavellan herself was careful not to reveal her magic to others she did not trust absolutely.

Still, she made no move to hide that she did, in fact, read a great deal of academic papers on magic.

And that is how she realized that she knew Dorian Pavus. Or of him, at the very least.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as the familiarity dawned on her.. “You’re that Dorian Pavus! You wrote _Theoretical Temporal Magic: A Proposal_! It was brilliant!”

Dorian’s face lite up. “You read my paper? Felix, did you hear that? She _read_ my paper!”

“Yes, I heard. I am right here,” Felix said dryly. He glanced to Lavellan; she could see that he was just barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes. “He is very proud of that paper.”

“ _No one_ read my paper. Your father did, of course, but did I manage to get it brought before the magisterium? _No_. But it made it’s way this far south? Fantastic!”

Lavellan offered him a slightly apologetic smile. “Only as far as Wycome, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, no matter _where_ you read it, tell me -” He leaned his bare forearms upon the table, looking at her intently. “If you were to try to decrease the amount of energy that it would take to create a fissure in time, assuming you are already using an external power source to boost the spell, what would you do?”

Felix looked as though he was about to have a fit.

“Dorian! You cannot simply ask southerners - for _goodness sake_ , Dorian, did you not listen to my father when he told us about how magic works here?”

“We’re here to gain southern insight into problems we haven’t been able to solve, are we not?” Dorian quirked an eyebrow at his companion. “I am simply attempting to gain some of that insight.”

“I am not technically a southerner,” she said, feeling only mildly put on the spot. “And I am not of the southern college, so I cannot speak as one of our mages would. But if I was to suggest anything, have you considered devising  a system that would create a positive feedback loop? If it could be done, it would generate enough energy to power even the largest spell.”

Dorian gave a long suffering sigh. “She is _exactly_ like you, Felix. _Positive feedback loops!_ Laughable!”

“You did ask in regards to highly theoretical time magic,” Lavellan said kindly. “If you propose one impossible - or seemingly impossible - type of magic, why should you rule out other seemingly impossible methods for achieving said impossibility?” She hoped that she had spoken in a round-about enough way that it was not obvious that she had any working knowledge of magic apart from having read numerous academic journals.

All of her pocket change had gone to journals. For years. She could pull out old issues if anyone was to question her.

“Hmm.” Dorian tapped his lip as though in thought. “Think in impossible manners. Tell me, since you both seem to think it’s a good idea - how would _you_ devise this sort of positive feedback loop?”

And quite without realizing it, Lavellan found herself in an afternoon full of the most interesting discussion pertaining to magical academia that she had ever had the pleasure of having.

***

Lady Lavellan had not realized what a void was missing her life until she spent the evening with Lords Dorian and Felix - and later, Enchanter Fiona, who reintroduced herself when she returned for the evening, apologizing profusely for her earlier absence. Listening to them go on about magical theory was, quite simply, _magical_.

She had always wondered, in an intellectual way, what it would have been like if she were to attend the College of magi. She had, of course, heard all the worst of it - no one in the Free Marches had not heard of what had happened in Kirkwall, when a expose written on the atrocities that occurred within the college there had ignited the hotbed of issues brewing within the city - and brought about the end of more than one politician’s career. But in being a mage raised outside of such a place, limited to what her clan knew and could pass down to her, and limited to what few publications she was able to afford, she had never been in a situation such as this.

She was astounded by the conversation that took place over dinner, and she found herself quite taken with both men. Dorian Pavus was a gregarious man with a quick tongue and a razor intellect, and Felix Alexius was proved to be, if much softer spoken, just as wry and witty.

Lavellan did, of course, wonder as to if either of them was who Madame de Fer had referred to when they had last spoken. _Tevinter_ was a broad word, and Lavellan had no way of knowing _who_ this second claimant to the Skyhold inheritance was.

When Lavellan was younger, she had heard all of the horrible stories of Tevinter. That they lived without the civilized rules of the southern parts of the continent, that they employed magics that had been brought about by inhuman testing methods, and, of course, that they were only waiting for the opportunity to retake the entirety of the lands they had lost some centuries ago.

Lavellan did not have the fondest thoughts upon Tevinter as a whole - there was far too much history between those of Tevinter and her own people for her to ever thing _ah, yes, Tevinter. What a good place._ And yet her experiences with individuals from the empire had been quite gratifying. Cremisius Aclassi, for instance, who was one of the finest friends she had ever had. And now, to meet both Lords Dorian and Felix - she found herself quite drawn to them.

Fiona, for her part, seemed to be quite distracted throughout the evening; whatever she had invited Lavellan here for, she was unable to say. She was most certainly pleasant, and she joined in to the discussion on various magics with gusto, but it seemed that her mind was in quite another place altogether.

“Do not mind me, I am preoccupied with the upcoming hearings,” she told her when Lavellan made an offhand remark. “It won’t be the end of it, I think, but there is a solid effort being made to pass this next round of reforms. It is simply a wearing process, and one not liable to be over soon.”

“I had wondered if that was part of why you asked me here,” Lavellan finally said, in a moment later when both Dorian and Felix had excused themselves. “It seems that many people have been attempting to gain my acquaintance as of late, and I am still not entirely certain why.”

Fiona gave her a searching look before nodding slowly, as though she had come to some decision.

“Surely you have some idea of the position which inheriting Skyhold has put you in,” she said, and Lavellan gave a small laugh.

“A small idea, I believe.” She had been slowly piecing it all together since her arrival in Haven, but she felt less afloat than she had before.

Fiona leaned forward, speaking softly so as not to be overheard.

“There are...things which I cannot speak of, matters of great importance. You are in a unique situation, Lady Lavellan. The Lady Divine was a very influential woman, though she did not use that power to the full extent she could have. If you were to acquire even a small amount of that influence for yourself, and use it in a wise manner, there are many things that you could do. Eventualities that you could influence.”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed. “If you could speak plainly, Lady Fiona, I would much appreciate it. I fear I have not been in society long, and some things still elude me. If you are asking for my allegiance in some matter, I would have you ask me, not dance around the subject.”

She watched as Fiona struggled with her words; she wondered at what, exactly, it was which the woman wanted to say to her.

“I would be much obliged if you would look over the reforms that will be put before the courts while you are here,” she finally said, and Lavellan still felt that this was not all she wanted to say. “I have a copy in my study, which I will gladly give to you.”

Lavellan nodded; she was no clearer on what Fiona meant by any of this, and all she could wager was that she _did_ seek her influence in the matters of the reforms. But she would not push it, not for the moment.

That evening, she settled down with the papers supplied by Fiona and read them over. Once, twice, three times she read them, but nothing became any clearer. Her head felt heavy from reading into the night, and eventually she turned out the gas-fed lights in the room.

Still,her mind dwelt on the papers into the evening hours, and she wondered if there was something more to what she had read upon them.

***

She had planned to speak to Lady Fiona more the following day - in fact, she had meant to stay in Redcliffe far longer - but morning came along with a dusting of snow upon the ground. There was little doubt that winter had truly begun in earnest, and Fiona impressed upon her the importance of returning to Haven before the snow had grown too high.

She said her goodbyes - she was particularly loathe to part company with Lords Dorian and Felix - and set out in her carriage as quickly as possible. At first, she was quite delighted by the snow, for she had seen little of it while living upon the fens outside of Wycome, but as the day pressed forward, so did the amount of snow. The road into the town was beginning to turn dangerous, and she feared that the coach would become stuck.

It was a blessing indeed that Haven was so close to Redcliffe, for she made it back to Skyhold before nightfall, when the snow turned heavy and thick where before it had been light, if steady. As the sky darkened, the world turned more orange than black, the snow settling down and covering all.

It was very cold and, when she descended from the carriage in the courtyard, very silent. The snow swallowed up all sound, safe for the soft, wet noises of snow falling upon snowbanks.

Lavellan was glad to return home, even though she had been loathe to leave Redcliffe. Inside Skyhold was warmth, all of the doors to the large, drafty halls shut tightly to conserve heat. She shook snow off her coat at the threshold and handed off her luggage, keeping for herself the copy of the reforms Fiona had given her tucked within the copy of _Hard in Hightown_ that she had taken with her for light reading.

Not ready to retire for the night, Lavellan set herself up before the fire with a hot cup of tea and said reading. She could make no more sense of it here than she could in Redcliffe, but as she read and reread, something of a pattern seemed to emerge within the phrasings used. Though she could still not place it, she felt more surely that there was much more to the papers than she had initially thought.

It had grown quite late and the snow had risen quite high when a pounding came at the front door. Initially startled, Lavellan quickly became curious as to who would be making such a racket at such an hour. With only slight trepidation, she answered the door by herself.

There, with snow collecting upon his shoulders and hat and horns, stood the Iron Bull, and beside him, huddled miserably beneath heavy fur coats, were -

“Lord Dorian? Lord Felix?” Her brows rose in shocked surprise and she quite forgot herself. “What are you doing here?”

Bull all but carried them inside.

“Found these two idiots freezing to death on the road here. Said they wanted to speak to you, so I decided to bring them along.”

“I say, unhand me, you brute,” Dorian say, but the effect was undermined by how badly he was shivering, even through his coat. “Lady Lavellan. Uncourteous as it is of us to drop by unannounced, and at such an hour, but we had something of utmost importance to tell you that certainly couldn’t wait until it stopped snowing. Naturally, Felix and I took it upon ourselves to warn you.”

“And you came all the way here? In _this_ weather?” She ushered all of them inside. “ _Goodness_ , but you are frozen solid!”

“A charming side effect of this southern weather,” Dorian said, though his attempt at being light hearted was thwarted by the way he shivered.

“Lady Fiona sent us,” Felix said, his teeth chattering. He had gone very pale with the cold, and he rubbed his hands together before him.

“Tell me more _after_ you’ve gotten before the fire. Goodness, Bull, were you and the Chargers out in this too?”

Bull shrugged; he wore a massive great coat and thick fur-lined gloves and did not appear in the least to be cold. “The boys are down at the inn. We got in too late to make it up here, but when I ran into these two - asking where Skyhold was, at that - I figured I’d better haul them up here.”

“Thank you, Bull,” she said, and she then ushered all three men into the sitting room. She was certain there would have been talk, had there been anyone around to see, but at the moment she was more concerned with making certain that they did not freeze to death. Even Bull, who seemed perfectly fine with his hand knitted covers upon his horns.

“Now, tell me why you are here,” Lavellan said later, when they were wrapped in blankets and each had a cup of tea, sitting before the fire. “I confess, this is an unusual occurrence at Skyhold. Two half-frozen men from Tevinter come to my door in the dead of night. How the people will talk!”

“There will certainly be talk when more men from Tevinter show up,” Felix said. Lavellan felt that flutter of anxiety she had felt before.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, but she feared she knew the answer before Dorian spoke.

“There is a magister from Tevinter, and he is on his way here to prove that he is the rightful heir to Duchess Divine’s inheritance.”

There was a moment of stillness and silence, broken suddenly by Bull’s laugh.

“Shit, if he’s on his way here, he’s out of luck. The road’s completely covered; Haven is as good as cut off now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot finally jumps forward! I have been impatiently waiting to introduce Dorian (and Felix!) as I've known how I wanted to add him into the story since I first decided this would be more than a one-shot. Plus, now I've finally gotten a little into the modified version of DA's magic that I'm using for this AU!
> 
> I want to thank everyone for all of the lovely comments and feedback! I’m very glad to hear that people are enjoying my (very self indulgent) AU!
> 
> The wonderful Tsyele did art for chapter 7 of the attempted apology scene! [It's wonderful!](http://tsyele.tumblr.com/post/117281161961/so-im-doing-something)
> 
> Also, since I was asked, I did see David Gaider’s regency AU tweets! I thought they were delightful (and also, thankfully, very different from where exactly I'm going with this!)! His DA2 Regency AU tweets from today were amazing and super fun to read!


	9. In which Lavellan sees something which cannot possibly exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Lavellan learns something of importance about the man from Tevinter who seeks to steal her inheritance; she also begins to acknowledge the strangeness of her new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I get this chapter started, I want to show off this [wonderful drawing that Tsyele drew of my favorite scene in chapter 7](http://tsyele.tumblr.com/post/117281161961/so-im-doing-something), where Solas and Lavellan almost, _almost_ come to an understanding while standing in front of the window. This is the first time that anyone has ever drawn something inspired by a fic of mine, and I am so incredibly thrilled to see this lovely piece!

There are many things that Lavellan had learned were unacceptable in the southern reaches of Thedas, and apparently allowing men from Tevinter to stay in her home broke at least ten unspoken rules about how one was to act. Had it become common knowledge that two mages from the empire had taken lodging with her - even for a night - things could have turned disasterous.

That was one good thing about the mass quantities of snow that fell overnight. No one was able to get in or out of Haven, and that meant that the quickness by which gossip could spread was greatly reduced.

It took a good deal of time for Dorian and Felix to stop shivering and shaking after Bull deposited them both before the fire. It was quite evident that - like Lavellan - they were unused to the extreme cold which came with southern winters. Unlike Lavellan, they were from a region where the days were more uniform and the turn of seasons less severe, and so they were even more thrown by the weather than she was.

Still, at the very least they had not come to Skyhold without practical coats and boots, and so despite taking a good deal of time to warm up before the fire, there was no lasting damage done.

They had taken horses from Redcliffe, hoping those would do better in the incontinent weather than a carriage, and while the trip had been marginally faster they had been more exposed to the elements than she had been. The horses were now sequestered within her stables, two great, hearty things. She had made arrangements several weeks back for a stablemaster, and so the horses were cared for by a young woman named Seanna, whose father was a renowned horsemaster in Redcliffe.

As it was very late when the men arrived at her house, it was all that Lavellan could do to have rooms prepared for them, and while she longed to learn everything they could tell her about the magister who was supposedly on his way, the late hour and all of their general conditions made a better argument for a night of sleep first.

And so Lord Dorian and Lord Felix spent the night in two of the newly furnished guest chambers within Skyhold, as did Bull. Lavellan was delighted to learn that the Chargers were once more in Haven, and she dearly hoped that she would be able to see Krem once more in short order.

Morning brought the realization that even more snow had fallen in the night; when Lavellan woke and looked out her window, she saw only white, stretched out for miles over hills and trees and the ground. She could just make out the buildings and homes of Haven.

There was a curious feeling that sat within Lavellan’s chest, and if she had not felt it only a few days prior she might have put it down to the shift in the weather. And while the sudden drop of snow and the muffled silence that came with it was certain odd and had left an altogether different feel within the air, it was something else entirely that she felt upon waking.

There was that same odd, envious knot that she had woken up to only days before that sat in her chest once more. She could not pinpoint its source nor could she determine what, precisely, she felt envious _of_. It was simply a little lump of feeling which coiled within her and made her tongue taste bitter and foul.

It was a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

The feeling did not ease, at it had before, until well into the morning; not until she took breakfast and morning tea with the guests did it finally dim down to a point where she could ignore it.

“Now, as you are both well rested and no longer frozen half to death, would you care to enlighten me as to who, exactly, this rival claimant to my inheritance is and just why this was so important to you that you came racing in my wake in a snowstorm?”

Dorian and Felix looked at each other uneasily; Bull, for his part, looked entirely at ease, though comically large as he sat at the end of the table, the teacup he held dwarfed by his hand.

“Perhaps you should -”

“No, but you tell it so much better,” Dorian said, and that left Felix looking only momentarily out out before he set down his piece of toast, folded his hands before him, and sighed.

“His name is Lord Corypheus of the House of Dumat,” he said, and the look upon his face was expectant. Lavellan swallowed a mouthful of tea as she considered this information.

“I am afraid that I am not familiar with that name," she said, though the name  _Dumat_ struck a chord in her, and not a pleasant one. _  
_

“Not even the _great_ house of Dumat?” Dorian asked, and the sarcasm that filled his voice practically dripped.

Lavellan replaced her teacup on the saucer before her, careful not to allow her ring tap the porcelain. “It sounds familiar, but I am afraid that the politics of Tevinter are not something that I have the brightest of outlooks upon.”

“The House of Dumat,” Felix said, as though reciting from a book, “is one of the oldest bloodlines in Tevinter, and can be traced back to the first of the magisters who formed the empire after the -” And here he stopped awkwardly, looking at Lavellan with heat rising in his cheeks.

Lavellan had a good idea of what he was about to say, but she only lifted an eyebrow in invitation for him to speak further.

“Oh, come on, Felix. Stop looking like you’re about to be sick; it’s unpleasant history, but it’s _extremely_ important right now, and if you don’t tell her than I shall.”

“No, that’s all right,” Felix said, though he paused to drink another sip of tea and compose himself. His cheeks were still very pink. “The House of Dumat is, historically, considered one of the houses which was instrumental in forming the empire after...taking part in the destruction of Arlathan.”

It was precisely what Lavellan had expected, though to hear it said aloud made her stomach twist anew.

“Is that so,” she said, attempting to keep her voice level. The way her insides lurched made her feel as wrong as she had when she woke. “And this Corypheus is a direct descendent?”

“Yes,” said Felix, very softly. At the end of the table, Bull sat more alert than before; Lavellan saw how he looked to her from his one good eye. His expression was impassive, but she could tell he was concerned.

“Well.” Lavellan folded her hands neatly in her lap and carefully did not look at anyone else at the table. There was a great tumult of emotions welling inside her, new ones along with the remians of the unpalatable ball of envy she had woken with. “That is something.”

“As far as we were able to gather,” Dorian said then, as silence threatened to stretch across the table, “ _Lord_ Corypheus wishes to regain a foothold in the south. The grand Tevinter of old and all of that rubbish. And he’s concocted some scheme to prove that he is the rightful heir to Duchess Divine’s inheritance.”

Lavellan sat for a moment longer, collecting her thoughts, attempting to find the reasoning behind all of this. She felt a spike of panic that shot louder than all the other warring emotions, for she still felt that her hold upon Skyhold was tenuous indeed, and if this man had a claim that could be proven legitimate it would mean ruin for her.

“What I do not understand,” she said then as she lifted her eyes from where they had been staring at her half eaten breakfast, “is _why_ both of you, two lords of the empire, came rushing up here to warn me.”

“Ah, that is the question,” Dorian said. He leaned back in his chair, looking decidedly more at ease than anyone else at the table. “We were quite truthful in telling you that we are both here for academic reasons beyond all else. But one happens to hear things, particularly when one’s family has a vested interest in how all of the nobles of Tevinter go about their business.”

“My father,” Felix said, looking decidedly less embarrassed than before. “He is among those who would like to see the empire restored to what it once was, and views Lord Corypheus as someone who could make that a reality. I...ah. Saw several correspondences. Which is how we know something of what Corypheus is planning to do.”

“So when we met you and saw Corypheus’s men shortly after you left, well, we couldn’t very well leave you unprepared.” Dorian reached up and idly smoothed his fingers over his moustache, though it was not in need of it. “I am, of course, quite in agreement that Tevinter needs to change. That said, expansion into the south is _not_ at all what it needs. It is, in fact, in need of almost the exact _opposite_.”

“ _Huh_ ,” said the Iron Bull, who looked, of all things, intrigued by this turn of events.

“ _Well,_ ” Lavellan said, looking at the two men with a new appreciation herself. “A noble from Tevinter all poised to try to claim my inheritance, and two revolutionary students from the same place come to my aid. This is truly something.”

“The world’s a funny place, boss,” said Bull, and Lavellan smiled.

***

There was, of course, the problem of finding lodgings for her new friends for Tevinter, which was made infinitely more difficult by the amount of snow on the ground. It had continued to snow well into the morning, and by the time that it eased up there were several feet of it to contend with.

Lady Lavellan was, in truth, concerned about the snow, just as she was concerned about the Corypheus, just as she was concerned about the three men currently in her sitting room. She was still concerned about the lump of envy sitting in her chest, which had come back in full force after breakfast and could be felt as a fluttering, anxious mess beneath her breastbone. That she could not determine _what_ it was directed at concerned her all the more; for all that she could tell, it was a sense of internalized envy, but that, of course, made no sense. How could she be envious of herself? She was not one for overwhelming amounts of conceit, and so she spent the better part of the morning concerned, anxious, and envious, and was generally in a disagreeable mood.

She also dearly wished to speak to Josephine Montilyet, who seemed the most likely to understand the legalities of what this Lord Corypheus was attempting to do, and who would give her the best idea of what to do in preparation for whatever was to come.

Bull, who was, as always, far more perceptive than most would give him credit for, took care of one of the problems for her. Shortly after breakfast he shrugged on his greatcoat and, after only a little bickering over the temperature outside, ushered both Dorian and Felix out the door. They took the horses they had come in on while Bull - looking like some great furred mountain creature in his heavy coat and hat - walked, sinking up to his knee in the snow with each step. Lavellan assured the two men from Tevinter that she would see them the next time she was in Haven proper, and Bull assured them that they’d be able to find proper lodgings.

Lavellan, if she had to guess, would say that what Bull considered to be proper and acceptable lodgings was very different from what Dorian and Felix did.

Still, it was a solution, but one that left Lavellan in her large, drafty, half-ruined estate on the hill, and she was struck by how _alone_ she felt.

There had been so much in the past months, so many things that had occupied her time. Her fortune had changed so quickly that it had seemed all but surreal; she had truly not allowed herself to think since Wycome, and now, in the silence left in the house and the silence left by the snow, she felt that loneliness press down upon her.

She thought, very suddenly, of how this would be her first winter without her clan. It was an abrupt, unwanted, painful thought, and such dreadful longing rose up in her throat that she almost choked.

In that moment, she wanted to be anywhere but in Skyhold. She wanted to be home, in the marshland outside of Wycome. She wanted to be among her kin once more.

Lady Lavellan shook herself. That line of thought would do her no good, no good at all. She shook herself and she pulled her housecoat tight around her shoulders and she decided that she would spend the day in her study with her borrowed copy of _Hard in Hightown_ and the papers from Fiona that were tucked inside.

Compared to the library she had seen in Redcliffe, Lavellan’s study was no more than the barest bones of a room. She had the smallest collection of books, and while she had bought several while in Val Royeaux, most of what was in her study were the numerous publications from both the College and from Tevinter that she had managed to buy over the years. Many were tattered by this point, having been read over and over.

She settled down at her desk and took out the papers from Fiona, thinking that looking over them again would help, but all she did was waste several hours. She wondered if she was attempting to make more out of them than was actually there. Perhaps they simply were only a draft of the reforms, nothing more than what would be perused by anyone else interested in seeing what was to be taken before the courts in short order.

She had given up in frustration and turned to the copy of Hard in Hightown instead - she had left it at a cliffhanger, and she was, in fact, curious as to whether or not there was going to be another beheading - when she heard a noise from downstairs.

It sounded like a door being shut very heavily. Lavellan set down her book uneasily; she remembered the door shutting on its own when Miss Harding had visited, and she remembered the figure in her mirror, and she remembered all the strange feelings that were within the house.

 _It could just be someone shutting a door_ , she thought, but that inexplicable ball of envy in her chest was still there and the house was otherwise so still and silent.

Lavellan rose, adjusted her housecoat and belted it tightly, and then stepped outside her study.

She was right - the manor was still. It was silent, and outside the windows snow still fell. Light shone in through the windows, painting patches of white upon the walls and floor. The contrast seemed abnormal to her eyes, until she realized that each and every gaslamp had gone out.

Her footsteps were silent as she descended the staircase. Down the hall towards the still-ruined wing of Skyhold, she heard the sound of a door being flung open.

It was quite unwise of her, to walk towards that sound, in an otherwise soundless house when all of the gas lamps had inexplicably gone out. But she did it anyway.

The door to the ruined wing was open, and Lavellan lingered in the doorway with her heart in her throat. She felt that strange catch beneath her breast bone once more, the strongest sense of _want,_ and for the briefest moment she thought she saw something in that ruined hall, something tall and thin and impossible.

A sound cut through the silence of the house then, and what she thought she saw vanished as though it had never been. Again, the sound rang out, muffled by the glass of the windows and the stone of the walls, but still bright and shining. It came from the front of the house, and it took Lavellan a breath too long to realize what it was that she was hearing. It was a chiming sound, bright ringing, bells upon the snow.

Lady Lavellan shook the strangeness of the prior moment from her and turned towards the front door. This time, her footsteps made little sounds on the floor as she walked, and when she pulled open the door, a rush of sound and light and cold hit her, and she realized the sound came from sleigh bells.

Lady Leliana and Lady Cassandra had come to Skyhold, and it was as though their presence had breathed life back into the place. The gas lamps stuttered back on and took came alight as though they had never gone out.

Leliana was rosy-cheeked from the cold, bundled up in furs and wool that were taken from her at the door. Cassandra was dressed as austerely as ever in a sternly cut woolen coat over her suit and breeches, though the scarf she unwound from her neck was a distinctive lightish red color that could only be called pink. She had already jumped down from the sleigh, hands on the bridles of the great draft horses that pulled it, steadying them. It was Leliana who leaped out, hampered by skirts and coat, to walk up the steps of Skyhold manor.

“We had heard you were back from Redcliffe. And so early. We expected you gone at least another week!” Leliana said in lieu of a greeting, and while Lavellan wondered at how she had learned this all so fast when she had only returned the night before. She was beginning to realize that Leliana had more ways of acquiring information and gossip than she could possibly fathom. But she supposed it likely that this was Bull’s doing, in some fashion, though when he had met Leliana or Cassandra, she did not know.

“It is an earlier return than I expected as well,” Lavellan said. Steam rose from the horses as they stood there, looking quite grateful to have stopped, even temporarily.“I was advised to return before the snow closed the mountain passes.”n

“Then you made it just in time! The passes became too treacherous overnight, and with more snow on the way, it is likely Haven will be snowed in for the foreseeable future.”

Lavellan felt a lessening of some of the anxiety that had been building since that morning. If the passes were unsafe to travel, then it was possible her inevitable meeting with this Corypheus would be postponed.

Cassandra stomped her boots and left snow all over the foyer floor. “We had wanted to come check on you; Haven winters are not the kindest, especially not to a northerner. If it snows much more, you might end up trapped up here; we wanted to extend an invitation to stay at Nightengale Hall. For as long as is necessary.”

“Until the weather clears up,” Leliana added brightly.

Lavellan’s eyes went wide and she was momentarily speechless. She was a stranger to southern winters, that much was for certain, and while she had reasoned that the mountain passes that lead to Haven could close up with snow, she had not considered that she could very well be cut off from the town itself, should things grow worse.

“That…” She considered it, thinking of how empty Skyhold was, the distance from Wycome, how she would go through the winter without family. She thought of the little lump of envy fluttered and grew as she looked at Leliana and Cassandra, and the odd, spindly thing she had thought she saw in the ruined hall. She thought of how she did not wish to be in Skyhold at this moment. “I think that I would like that. Very much.”

“Good,” Cassandra said, in such a matter-of-fact way that Lavellan wondered if she had even considered the possibility of another answer.

It did not take Lavellan long to gather her things, for she had not unpacked from her brief trip to Redcliffe. She traded her housecoat for a long woolen one and her fur lined gloves, and bundled herself up as best she could. When she was set to leave and had, herself, turned out each of the gas lamps in her home, Cassandra helped her up into the sleigh and she settled comfortably next to Leliana.

“Here, you will need these,” Leliana said, pulling blankets up over both their legs while. “It is a bit colder than a carriage ride. Have you ever been in a sleigh before?”

“No,” Lavellan said, and she gave a little breathless gasp as Cassandra clicked her tongue and urged the horses forward. It was an entirely different feel from the carriage, to slide over the snow like this. The cold air snapped at her cheeks and the snow that still fell collected upon the brim of her hat, and beside her Leliana smiled and chattered about inconsequential things.

Lady Lavellan felt, as Skyhold manor fell into the distance and the cold seeped into her cheeks, that hard knot of envy within her chest began to undo itself. Just the slightest bit.


	10. In which there are explanations and an escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Lavellan learns something more of Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, and she finds that Mr. Solas is not quite as simple to understand as she had thought.

The trip to Haven was far longer than it had been prior to the snow, and they stopped several times to allow for the horses to cool down. But there was a crystalline beauty to the land around them, with snow caught on the trees and covering the smaller plants, and the mountains around them were blanketed white peaks that stretched up to the sky.

It was something of a joy to ride with Lady Leliana and Cassandra. Though Cassandra often kept up a dour front, Lavellan had come to find that she was an exceptionally passionate, driven woman. Leliana was, in contrast to the general sternness that Cassandra exuded, a bright, vivacious woman who, as Lavellan had noted on several occasions, had quite an ear and tongue for gossip of all sorts. By the time they reached Nightingale Hall, she had been regaled with what felt like all of the social engagements from the past months. Leliana spoke in a quick, rapid manner, flitting from topic to topic, and mentioning names that Lavellan had no familiarity with whatsoever.

“Now, do tell us about your friends from Tevinter,” Leliana asked when she had run out of her own gossip to spread, and for one heart stopping moment, Lavellan did not dare to breathe.

“My...Tevinter friends?” she asks distantly, for her mind had gone to _Lord Corypheus of the House of Dumat_ when she mentioned Tevinter, and that uncertainty surrounding him did nothing to lessen her nerves.

Perhaps Leliana was aware of how anxious she had suddenly become, or perhaps she simply enjoyed speaking, for she elaborated quickly. “I saw them with your captain earlier today. Very spirited! At least the one, who did not seem to be agreeable with your captain. They mentioned that they had come from Skyhold, so I naturally assumed that they were acquaintances of yours!”

It was her use of possessive pronouns that threw Lavellan now, and she was quite caught upon them. “My captain?” she asked, her mind feeling as though it was moving sluggishly. “Do you mean Bull?”

“The large man from Par Vollen? Captain Bull?”

“The Iron Bull,” Lavellan said, and then she gave a small laugh. “And he certainly isn’t _my_ captain. I’m quite certain he would object to being called mine.”

“He’s quite imposing, isn’t he,” Leliana mused, almost to herself. “I knew a man like him once. From Par Vollen as well. He was nothing short of a stick-in-the-mud, but I suppose he had a certain charm. He was a loyal friend, at the least. He returned to Par Vollen some time ago.”

As she was want to think from time to time, Lavellan briefly considered the possibility that Bull might, himself, one day return to his homeland. She had asked him once, and his reply had been “If they ask me to, I’ll go home. But I’ve got no plans. The south is much more fun.”

“Speaking of men,” Leliana said, and Lavellan later felt that she should have seen this line of questioning coming, though at the moment she was still contemplating the use of a possessive pronoun in association with her and Bull, “what do you think of our dear Mr. Solas? He is something of an enigma, is he not? Cassandra said that the two of you seemed rather taken with one another at Mr. Tethras’ party when last we saw you.”

“I said no such thing,” said Cassandra, though she kept her eyes upon the path ahead of them and clicked the reins to urge the horses forward. But Lavellan was once again struck by Leliana’s choice of words, and again her brow furrowed in confusion.

“ _Taken_ with him?” She shook her head, though the movement extended to her whole body, as though the thought was too much. “No. I am not taken with him, nor he with me if I had to guess. You are correct, though, in that he is something of an enigma. I can’t quite understand his circumstances or how it is that he has come to move in what social circles he does, when he appears to be a simple artist.”

“He is friends with Mr. Tethras,” Cassandra said, and the way that she spoke the other man’s name seemed once more rife with the same discontent that Lavellan had witnessed at Mr. Tethras’ party. “Or, at the very least, Mr. Tethras has decided that Mr. Solas is _his_ friend, and as such he is often brought to the same events. For my part, I find Mr. Solas to be remarkably well spoken and insightful, though I will agree that I am not certain what to make of him.”

“He is very rude,” Lavellan said then, and this earned her a look from both woman. Perhaps she should have felt something of a gossip to say as much, but it was a sentiment she had only expressed by written word before and speaking it aloud lifted a sort of pressure from her shoulders. “In fact, he is, without a doubt, the rudest man I have encountered in Haven.”

There was a flicker of some calm, calculating look upon Leliana’s face, which was swiftly hidden behind a veneer of surprise. “Rude? But you seemed as though you were getting along quite well at Mr. Tethras’ party! You spent such time speaking to one another by the window!”

Once more, Lavellan gave a start, and the disconnect between Leliana’s perception of events and Lavellan’s experiences seemed shocking.

“We spoke because he was apologizing - poorly, I might add - for an insult which he leveled at me previously. If it appeared as though we were amiable with one another, than it appears we are both excellent actors.”

“So _that_ is what happened,” Leliana said. “I had wondered.”

And that is when occurred to Lavellan, for the oddity with which Leliana had asked her questions finally settled fully upon her. She looked at the woman beside her and was quite impressed, for each of Leliana’s questions and comments seemed to her now as carefully constructed sentences, her words deliberately chosen. Deliberately _wrong_ , so as to draw out an answer by feigned misconception.

It was, if Lavellan had judged it correctly, a remarkable way of learning information without seeming more than an idle gossip.

“Now, then,” Leliana said, readjusting the blankets that covered their legs and turning her body towards Lavellan more fully, and she suddenly appeared far more open and bright, as though her questions had become lighter and less intended to pry information. “What do you think of our dear Commander? He is a handsome man, no?”

 

***

 

Nightingale Hall was an older building within the city limits of Haven; it sat upon the edge so that there was space for the lands that spread behind it, but it was still undeniably within the town. It was built of stone with great windows of stained glass; it had, in fact, a sense of having once been a church, though the insides had been long since changed to turn it into a manor in its own right.

Lavellan settled in well, surprisingly so, and where so many of the places she had visited since her first arrival to Skyhold seem transitory, there was an almost homely feel to Nightingale Hall that set her at ease. She was given quarters in the east guest wing, a room smaller than her own rooms at Skyhold and yet more warmly furnished. Leliana’s touch, Cassandra has said, and it was immediately obvious to Lavellan that Leliana’s tastes ran towards to elegant and Orlesian.

It continued to snow well into the week, though the pace slackened and occasionally stopped from time to time. It was good that Lavellan had moved from Skyhold, for as the snow stretched higher and higher, movement out from the town grew ever harder. Even a trip down the street became difficult, for while the buildings blocked some of the weather and daily the snow of swept from the streets, there was so much as to make a decent attempt at entombing the town in white.

But Nightingale Hall was warm and cozy, and Lavellan found herself among those who she was slowly growing friendships with. Both Cassandra and Leliana resided here, and it was each equally parts theirs.

Now Lavellan did not spend all her time in their company, and was on several occasions left entirely to her own devices. It was upon one of these days - not yet wishing to brave the weather outside to make her way down to the town center to see if Lords Dorian and Felix were well, or to see the Chargers once more - that she found herself in Lady Cassandra’s private study.

The door was not locked, which is how the accident occurred in the first place. Lavellan did not intend to snoop - she had, in fact, been looking to see if there was library wing within the hall, for she had not seen anything set up to that effect. While Nightingale Hall was nowhere near as large as Skyhold Manor, it was still much larger than the houses that Lavellan had been previously familiar with, and there were many doors which she did not know where they lead. And so, seeking something else entirely, she found herself opening a door that lead into Cassandra’s study.

She did not realize what it was at first, though that realization dawned quickly. There was, upon the wall, a great shield bearing the emblem of an eye wide open and wreathed in the rays of the sun; behind it hung two crossed swords, both polished to a shine. They were not the only weapons in the room, though they seemed the most antique. A rapier, much thinner than the swords on the mantle, was suspended from a stand on another wall. But the other walls -

Were it not so small and intimate a room, obviously adorned by Cassandra's hand, Lavellan would have thought this the hall's library. There were books here, though at closer look she realized that there were a number upon one shelf that were _not_ books at all. They were stacks and stacks of newsprint, some turned yellow with age, some newer. She peered closer and saw the name of the paper emblazoned upon the top - and she knew.

 _The Champion of Kirkwall_ , proclaimed the elegant print. She knew this paper from the few times she had been in Kirkwall, though it had not been printed there in four years and she had not cared for such things on the occasion she had been there when it was still in publication. But she remembered it, handed out on street corners. She remembered one of the two issues she had looked at, only a few sheaves of paper at the time, proclaiming the wrongdoings of the city, uncovering the things that those of Kirkwall liked to pretend were not a problem.

Was the Champion real? Lavellan had asked Mr. Tethras at his party, and this was what she meant - had it been the woman he claimed who wrote the papers, was it truly the Lady Hawke, descended from the Amells of Kirkwall, who had taken it upon herself to investigate what seemed every shady deal within the city walls, who seemed to spend more time in the gutters and sewers and the seedier parts of the city than in her lavish estate? Was Mr. Tethras' book, _The Tale of the Champion_ , fact or fiction based on upon rumor?

It was this paper that had first run a copy of _A Manifesto_. She had read that issue when one of her clan came into a possession of it, and she had marveled at it, that a paper would print such a thing. But at the time, _The Champion of Kirkwall_ was nothing more than an anonymous paper written by an anonymous author, distributed to taverns and doorsteps.

She wondered why Cassandra had so many issues of it. As she leafed through the pile, too curious for a house guest who should not snooping, she realized that it was not just many issues she had - it was _all_ of them. Every single one, arranged in chronological order.

Next to the stacks of papers sat a leather bound copy of a book. _The Tale of the Champion_ gilded words spelled along the spine. Gingerly, Lavellan picked it up; it fell open at a break in the pages, and she realized it was a well read copy. There was a great gash straight through the center, as though someone had thrust a sharp object through the cover and the pages.

“Are you finding something interesting?”

Cassandra’s voice broke the stillness in the room; Lavellan spun around, clutching the book to her chest. She felt embarrassment rush into her face; there was a sickly flush that ran along her cheekbones.

“Cassandra! I am - so, so sorry, I was - exploring and I -” She stopped, for Cassandra’s face was oddly blank. Not angry, simply inexpressive, and that in itself was frightening.

She held out her hand and Lavellan passed her the book with it still open to the page it had fallen to, a print of a drawing opposite of text. The print was an indistinct silhouette of a woman against a cityscape that could have been Kirkwall.

“I _am_ sorry,” Lavellan said, but Cassandra was quiet a moment longer, staring at the book, and then she _laughed_.

“I suppose you can see something of my ire at Mr. Tethras,” she said then, and turned the book so that his name upon the cover could be seen. “Though doubtless you wonder why I have such a collection of such inflammatory writing in my study.”

“I truly did not mean to pry,” Lavellan said, and she clasped her hands before her in what she hoped was an apologetic manner. “I won’t ask you for anything that you don’t want to tell.”

“It’s hardly a secret,” Cassandra said as she moved across the room. She sat down in a chair backed in well worn leather and gestured for Lavellan to take an adjacent seat. “You are familiar with what happened in Kirkwall, yes?”

“Of course,” she said, sitting herself down. Her eyes drifted once more to the open book. “It is hard not to know of how Kirkwall set off the string of events that lead to the current push for reforms.”

“Exactly.” Cassandra took the bulk of the pages in the book and turned them, opening it to a point near the end. She had a clipping from one of the newspapers stuck there, whether as a bookmark or as supplemental material, Lavellan could only guess. “ _The Champion of Kirkwall_ was instrumental in understanding what occurred, though it took...time. To piece it all together. It was not until Mr. Tethras published his book that the entire narrative became clearer.”

“He did say that the Champion was real.”

“Yes.” Cassandra nodded, and then she shut the book, her fingers lingering over the slash in the cover. “Lady Hawke of the Amell family, if Mr. Tethras and other reports are to be believed. Though it is likely there were several others writing for _The Champion_ throughout its publication. We know the manifesto that was published was written by another author, and that there was a third who occasionally provided columns on the experiences of the dalish who lived near the city. But Lady Hawke…” She tapped her fingers on the book. “ _She_ was at the center of it all.”

It was a curious thing, the way Cassandra spoke of this woman and the paper. The sharp edge she normally used for all things related to Mr. Tethras was gone from her voice; instead, there was something almost wistful. Something almost sad.

“So you were looking for...truth about what occurred in Kirkwall, through the writings of Lady Hawke,” Lavellan said slowly, not so much a question as herself attempting to understand the collection of papers, the way Cassandra spoke of her. “Why?”

Cassandra looked at her, and there was a smile that tugged upon the side of her mouth. She gave the smallest of laughs, like what she had to say was something fondly remembered.

“That is a simple answer,” Cassandra said. “I sought out these answers because Duchess Divine asked me to.”

 

***

 

It was several days later, when the snow had allowed the sun a brief interlude, that Lavellan made her way from Nightingale Hall down into Haven. It was, thankfully, not overly difficult, and while she did have to watch for slick patches, the streets were fairly well cleared. At the very least, they were clear enough that she could make it the short way into town and then to the inn. She had half a mind to find the Iron Bull and Krem and the rest of the Chargers; the other half of her mind contemplated the thought of finding where Felix and Dorian had settled in.

Now the inn in Haven was a respectable place, and it was fairly empty in the dead of winter with all routes in and out of the town cut off. But it was the primary place where those seeking temporary lodging would stay, and so when Lavellan entered the building she did not anticipate difficulty in finding anyone who she sought.

Indeed, she was quite correct in that, for almost upon entering she heard the sound of Dorian’s laughter. It came from a room off of the main foyer, where a door stood partially adjacent. She hesitated for only a moment, making certain that her boots were free of snow, before crossing to the door. She paused with her hand raised to knock, but the sound of voices within held her up short.

“Surely you cannot be serious!” she heard Dorian say, followed by another throaty laugh. “Why, that’s simply _preposterous_. Fairy stories and nonsense. No one in their right mind would think to do _that_ with a spell and actually have it work!”

“Not if one thinks outside of the narrow Tevinter mindset of what is possible with magic,” a very familiar voice said in response, and Lavellan’s heart gave an unexpected, unwarranted flip.

Rather than allow herself to turn and ignore him, she knocked upon the partially open door. She had come to see Dorian and Felix, and so she _would_ see Dorian and Felix.

It was Felix who opened the door all the way; his eyes widened when he saw her and then a smile broke out upon his face. “Lady Lavellan! What a surprise! Dorian, it appears we have another visitor!” He seemed a little paler than he had been the last time she saw him, and there was a slight redness to his nose that seemed to indicate the onset of a winter cold.

“And right in the middle of a good argument, too. Well, come on, let her in!”

Felix stepped to the side to allow her entrance into the room. It was a simply furnished sitting room for the inn, but Dorian had made himself comfortable in an only slightly worn looking chair, a glass of wine in his hand. And beside him -

“Mr. Solas,” she said, for it was better to get the greeting out of the way, and after all she _had_ come down to see Dorian and Felix. “This is...unexpected.” She did not call it a surprise or a pleasure. She could not exactly read the look upon his face when he, along with Dorian, rose from their seats at her entrance.

A heart could do most curious things upon meeting someone. Right now, Lavellan’s had begun to thump quite quickly and she wondered if it could be heard by the others. She was not particularly pleased by this reaction; she had rather thought that her ire at Solas had dissipated somewhat since their last meeting. Space had a way of doing that. But despite his attempts at apology, she could not deny what the rapid beating of her heart came from - a dreadful premonition that he would once again say something to the detriment of her people and she would once more find herself with feelings of an exceedingly angry nature towards him.

For a moment, he looked as though he was going to say something, but Dorian’s boisterous response to her appearance cut him short before he could say a word.

“Lady Lavellan! I do say, I was wondering when you would make an appearance! The sight of you is a bright spot in this dreadful, cold land!”

“You flatter me, Lord Pavus,” she said, and she saw his expression twist.

“Dorian, if you will. Lord Pavus is my father, and I’d prefer _not_ to think of myself as him.” He settled himself back into his chair, and his face smoothed over as though nothing had occurred. “Now sit! The wine is excellent and the company is more than adequate. Mr. Solas and I have been discussing magical theory all morning, and I do think we’ve come to something of an impasse. A new voice to the discussion could do _wonders_ for bringing us to some sort of conclusion.”

Beside her, Felix sighed, then moved to shut the door fully. “They have been at it all morning,” he told Lavellan as each of them moved to take a seat. He leaned his forearm upon the arm of his chair and leaned so that he could speak in a stage whisper to Lavellan. “In fact, I am quite certain we will never hear the end of this,” he told her, with the slightest inclination of his head towards Dorian. “He thrives on intellectual debate like this.”

Dorian had moved to pour Lavellan a glass of wine, but he raised his eyebrows at this. “Come now, Felix. Mr. Solas is suggesting a method that would is patently impossible by modern magical conventions.”

“Then perhaps you should broaden your understanding of magic,” Mr. Solas said, and Lavellan was somewhat shocked to hear a good natured note in his voice. “If you think only by modern conventions, you limit yourself. I assure you, there are magical schools of thought which would prove your skepticism wrong.”

“Perhaps you could enlighten me as to _what_ exactly you’re discussing?” Lavellan accepted the glass of wine from Dorian easily, and then leaned back in her chair. A clump of snow that had stubbornly remained upon her shoe fell off to melt upon the ground.

“Time displacement,” Mr. Solas said, and Lavellan brightened.

“Oh, have you been discussing the entropic energy required to bend time?” She saw Mr. Solas’ eyebrows rise; there was something of interest in the way that he looked at her. “I _am_ somewhat familiar with the concept. Theoretically, the energy needed would require either a vast amount of lyrium _or_ a great deal of mages all working in tandem.”

“Enough to render the process functionally impractical, or expensive to the point of absurdity,” Mr. Solas said. The sigh Dorian gave told the room that he had heard this quite often. “Which is why an alternate power source or method for constructing the spell should be considered.

“A positive feedback loop,” Felix added, and Lavellan smiled at the displeasure on Dorian’s face.

“Yes, yes, just create an endless well of energy! And then we’ll all ride unicorns across Thedas once we’re done.”

“He’s really not pleased that people keep suggesting it to him,” Felix told her in undertone. “It’s either that or redo the entire spell, to be quite honest. The energy cost is simply too much.”

“Which is why I suggested an alternative,” Mr. Solas said pointedly. Despite her better judgement - she was still sore about their argument, apology or no, and was not generally inclined to want to speak to him for longer than necessary - Lavellan found herself quite interested as to what sort of alternative he might suggest.

“And what would that be?” she asked him, and she noted the way he seemed to brighten. It was subtle, but there - the way the corners of his mouth pulled up just the slightest, the way the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“The best way to circumvent the energy cost would be to call upon the aid of a spirit,” Mr. Solas said. “Such an undertaking would likely attract the attention of a spirit of wisdom, though there would be considerable risk involved for one not prepared, but building such a friendship would have considerable benefits.”

“And this is where he has completely lost me,” Dorian said. “Spirits? That is something out of a fairy tale with a healthy dose of wishful thinking. Spirits are a legend, at best. There have been no documented cases of a mage interacting with a spirit since...well, since a very long time ago, and I doubt the academic veracity of those claims.”

“This is why I suggested you think outside of your own magical bias. Perhaps there are no documented cases in modern magical academia; that does not disprove their existence.”

“It doesn’t prove their existence, either,” said Dorian.

Lavellan found herself utterly fascinated.

“The dalish have stories of spirits,” she said, drawing the attention in the room to her. She saw Solas’ brow crease slightly, and she felt the slightest twinge of irritation. “Do not mistake me, they are no more than old, cautionary tales, at best. But they extend through the period you say has no documented cases of interaction. I would wager that, outside of the more legitimately recognized schools of magic, you would find numerous tales to support the existence of spirits.”

“An astute observation,” Mr. Solas said, and for a moment they looked at each other. It was strange indeed - there _was_ a certain brightness to him, and he looked far more open than she had seen upon him previously. “That is my belief as well. The magic practiced in the colleges of Ferelden, Orlais, and Tevinter have all moved away from techniques that involve any interaction with spirits. To decrease the potential for demonic possession. Effective, but foolish, as it has only further constrained magic and turned old techniques into nothing more than folklore.”

“And just how do we have any proof of the actual existence of spirits?” Dorian asked. “Or demons, for that matter. _Any_ proof, beyond speculation, would be quite desireable. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m not ruling out the possibility. But at the moment your suggestion is no more realistic than Felix and Lady Lavellan’s suggestion of a _positive feedback loop_ that creates infinite magical energy.”

That much was true, Lavellan could not deny that. And, truly, the stories that dalish told could not prove the existence of spirits any more than Mr. Solas’ assertions that they _did_ exist could. But the fact that this was his suggestion was intriguing, and the assurance in his voice made her think that, perhaps, he had some sort of proof. It was a deep seated conviction, at the very least, and it was one that, somehow, overwrote her ire with him. Because she found herself suddenly _quite_ interested in his theories, and that he had not instantly leapt to discount her account of dalish belief was heartening.

She could not deny that she had been anticipating any comment but what he had said.

It was strange, though. The way he spoke, the conviction in his voice - she felt that flicker of envy stir in her chest once more. How a simple painter could know such things struck her as odd, but she was coming to the conclusion that he was more than just an artist. Indeed, she had known that since he first suggested that he was a mage. It was obvious to her from the way that he spoke that he had a great wealth of knowledge, both pertaining to the things she had learned through reading papers on magical theory as well as knowledge that fell far outside of her own.

And she was...jealous of that, she realized, as that little bit of envy caught at her heart. How strange, that she would be envious of him!

The conversation continued in that vein for some time, though it quickly became obvious that both Dorian and Mr. Solas had the most to say, and as they meandered through topics, Lavellan found herself doing more listening than contributing. Felix did much the same, sitting in an almost amused silence and occasionally replying when Dorian attempted to pull him into the conversation.

Lavellan was not entirely certain how long she sat in that sitting room, listening to the two men before her speak. She only sipped at the wine Dorian had given her earlier, and when it was when it ran low that Felix leaned upon the arm of his chair once more, speaking to her in a quiet voice so as not to interrupt the others.

“I did tell you that they would be at this for hours,” he said. Lavellan laughed at that.

“So you did. I did get the impression that Lord Dorian liked to talk in such a manner.” She swirled the remaining wine in her glass, contemplating it. Across the room, the conversation had grown slightly more animate; Dorian gestured widely as though to illustrate a point. “I did not realize that Mr. Solas had just as much a desire to speak on such magical topics; he appears to find such discussion just as interesting as Dorian does.”

Felix echoed her laughter. “So it would seem. And you, my lady? How do you find such discussion?”

“I find it a topic without equal,” she said. It was not a lie, not in the least. She _delighted_ in such discussion, even if her own understanding of magic was quite different than that of the others in the room. “However, it is most certainly a topic which must only be spoken of behind closed doors if the full breadth of said topic is to be touched upon.”

Felix sighed; he had given indication before that he knew this to be true, but he did not seem to like to hear it spoken aloud. “You speak truth. When Dorian and I came south, we had been told of the...archaic manner in which magic was approached. I did not realize that it would be so frowned upon to discuss things outside of the most academic of settings.”

Lavellan settled the glass of wine upon the arm of the chair; it was good wine, red and rich, and she was quite content to sip it before the fire. “It is not that it must be discussed only in academic settings - it is that those who are practitioners outside of an academic setting can find themselves in dire straits. It is why there is such a push for reform in the south.”

“Of course, of course.” Felix nodded slowly. To their side, the debate between Mr. Solas and Lord Pavus grew more heated. “That is part of why Dorian and I came here in a strictly academic sense. Special papers and all of that, though it was quite difficult to convince your college of our good intentions. The political turmoil in the south makes it all the more difficult than it normally would have been.”

“...that is a technique which was unique to the House of Arlathan,” she heard Mr. Solas say then, and she looked up to realize that the conversation had turned into more dangerous waters. There was more of a bite to Mr. Solas’ words than before. “It is not _of Tevinter_.”

“It’s not - oh.” It was the least that Dorian could do to look slightly sheepish. “Well. I’ll chalk that one up as yet another piece of research which was stolen and not properly sourced.”

It was then that Lavellan found she could not take her eyes from Mr. Solas. “The House of Arlathan?” she said slowly, for this was the second time in such short order that she had heard that name spoken aloud. It was not a name often brought to light.

“All modern magical theory is built upon older research,” Mr. Solas said curtly. There was an awkward tension that had grown in the room; Dorian looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Much of Tevinter’s magical system references research and techniques that were first used by the House of Arlathan before its destruction.”

In that moment, she wanted to ask him how he knew this. What he had read, where he had found it. Again, she was struck by how certain he sounded. And Lavellan felt, again, that sense of envy, like a little spike through her heart.

Surely she could not be so envious of him. Of his knowledge. Surely not.

Still, with envy curling around her heart, she could not say otherwise.

 

***

 

One thing that Lady Lavellan came quickly to realize was that Commander Rutherford was a frequent visitor to Nightingale Hall. In fact, he was there so often that Lavellan was not quite certain he did not live there as well.

“He is an old acquaintance of one of Leliana’s dearest friends,” Lady Montilyet told Lavellan at tea during one of the days that the snow had let up. She looked as elegant as ever in a dress made of rich royal blue wool, the extreme cold having made any of the fine fabrics of Orlais impractical - and impossible - to wear. “From many, _many_ years ago. Cassandra met him quite separately. In Kirkwall, I believe, some three or so years ago.”

Kirkwall. That city again, though Lavellan now knew something of why things seemed to come back to there when Cassandra was involved.

It was only a few days after she had spent the afternoon in Haven, discussing magical theory, that Commander Rutherford attending midday tea at Nightingale Hall.

From her few interactions with him, Lavellan did not have a strong opinion about the man one way or the other. He was, for all intents and purposes, a handsome man, with the sort of large, rough-cut features that were pleasing to the eye. The fact that she had only ever seen him in sternly cut military garb did nothing to detract from his attractiveness; it suited him very well.

The day that he came to tea it had begun to snow again. It was not so heavy a snowfall as before, but enough to place a light covering of dust upon everything. It had collected on the brim of his hat by the time he arrived, and his hair beneath had turned to curls from the dampness.

She had not realized his hair was not straight before that moment. She found that it made him look somehow younger.

Tea was an enjoyable affair, for the most part. Lady Cassandra was absent, but Leliana more than made up for it. Lavellan was quite amused to find that Leliana greatly enjoyed embarrassing the commander, who put up with it with only a few stuttering protests.

It was, in fact, after one particularly embarrassing comment that Leliana excused herself to deal with a matter in an adjacent room. She left the Commander something of a blushing mess who would not quite meet Lavellan’s eyes.

That would not do, of course, and Lavellan wondered if Leliana had rather planned things in such a way.

“Lady Leliana seems determined to put you on the spot today,” she remarked, trying to keep all traces of laughter from her voice. Commander Rutherford coughed and cleared his throat, attempting to collect himself.

“Yes, well. Lady Leliana has a rather wicked sense of humor. I believe she finds me - how did she put it - an easy target.” He smiled and rubbed the back of his head. “Still, it does not bother me. I would not be here if it did.”

There was, then, the sort of awkward silence that comes when two people have been left alone in the same room and have no real idea what to speak of. Lavellan did wish that Leliana would return; the conversation had been easier with her there.

“I hear you are from Kirkwall?” she finally asked, to break the silence.

Commander Rutherford set his half empty tea cup down; the china clattered more loudly than intended. “Not originally,” he told her. “I am Ferelden by birth, from Honnleath.”

“You will have to tell me where that is; I am afraid I am still very unfamiliar with the south.” She, in turn, lifted her tea cup and sipped at it. Outside, it had begun to snow again; it seemed never to stop, so high were they in the mountains.

“It is to the south of us,” Commander Rutherford said. “It is a small town; there is not much to say of it. You are from Wycome?”

Lavellan nodded over the top of her tea cup. “Yes.”

“I did not realize there were still dalish clans in that area,” he remarked, and just like that her hands shook. It was not something she intended, and perhaps he meant it as just a simple comment, but still. Her hands shook and she spilled tea over her fingers.

Just a simple remark. It meant nothing.

“Oh, I am sorry!” She quickly set the cup down, before she could do more damage. “I am afraid I am still too clumsy for a proper cup of tea. Is there…” She searched for a linen to clean her fingers, and stopped as she found that the Commander had proffered his handkerchief to her. “ _Oh_.”

“Here,” he said, and Lavellan took the handkerchief from him, wiping the spilled tea from her fingers. And then she stilled, holding the little scrap of fabric.

 _I did not realize there were still dalish clans in that area_.

Oh, but she could not strike that sentence from her head, and she did not want to dwell on it. She wanted - strongly - to return home. To her clan. It was all that she wanted.

All at once, Lavellan felt the oddest sense of detachment, of displacement. Envy sat thick within her mouth, bitter and sharp on her tongue, stronger than before. It clung to her, dripped down into her chest, and lingered there. She felt as though she were outside of herself and within her was only some odd creature built of envy and want. It was a feeling so tangible it turned sharp and metallic within her mouth. Almost absently, she pressed her fingers to her mouth; when they came away not streaked in blood she felt surprise.

Commander Rutherford looked at her very oddly.

“Are you quite all right, Lady Lavellan?” he asked her, and it was as though his voice anchored her back to herself. She realized, as though coming late upon her own thought, that his expression was one of concern. “I apologize if I said something wrong.”

She gave the most polite of laughs, the noise coming through a throat that felt choked. “No, it is...nothing. I am….I am simply feeling a little light headed. Perhaps I need some fresh air.”

It was a sensible lie; the rooms were overwarm from the fires and the gas that lit the lamps and from the stagnant air. It was a lie she could even tell to herself, to explain the sensation of being apart from herself, from feeling distant and dizzy. She rose from her seat, her legs unsteady, her feet uncertain. There was a crease between Commander Rutherford’s brows; worry.

“If you need any assistance -” he began, but Lavellan steeled herself even as her first step forward felt as though she were walking upon air.

“That is very kind of you, Commander,” she said, though her voice felt faint to her own ears. Her chest ached with envy, and it made so little sense to her that she should feel such a thing. “But I am able to make do by myself. If you would excuse me?”

She left the room, each step more absent than the last. She felt displaced, like the offset image of an object half submerged in water. Again, she heard the Commander’s voice in her memory, and she wanted -

 _I want to know you_ , she heard, but it was not her voice, it was something that sounded within her ears and resonated within her chest.

As though in a dream, she remembered what had happened in Skyhold weeks ago - the way the gaslamps had gone out, and the strange things she had thought she saw flickering in the edge of her vision. A thin, spindly creature, a thing that should not have been there.

She thought that she saw one of the lamps that hung upon the wall of Nightingale Hall flicker.

She found a door at the end of the hall and followed it until it lead to another, and that other lead her outside. The chill air hit her, enveloped her. She stepped out into the snow, the edge of her skirts dragging, each foot sinking to the ankle and then further as she made her way out into the frozen courtyard. As the cold stole the warmth from her body, so did Lavellan feel the sense of displacement - the sense of envy - began flicker, fading in and out as though there was a way to drive it away. The cold made everything immediate, and she walked until something stopped her.

For a single, crystalline moment, Lavellan saw a boy out in the snow. She blinked back the bits of snow that clung to her eyelashes, certain that he was simply a trick of the light, but his image remained.

She saw him from a great distance, but saw him she did. Parts of him seemed to blend into the whiteness of the snow, and the edges of him seemed indistinct, but there was a boy - slender, washed out like a watercolor painting, a large brimmed hat that seemed far too large for his thin shoulders. He stood upon the snow, the tops of his shoes visible, and Lavellan was struck by the thought that this boy would freeze to death out here.

So she waded out into the snow, no coat to keep out the cold, sinking deeper and deeper with each step until the cold bit into her stockinged feet and filled her shoes until her toes disappeared. The pop and sting of envy within her chest seemed to hiss and coil as the cold seeped in, until it was pulled from her along with the heat in her skin. She walked, snowflakes collecting in her hair and upon her cheeks, towards to boy. He stood beneath a tree, and she thought she heard a voice calling to her - not her name, but a word of comfort that stole the last twist of envy from her - and then she blinked.

She blinked, and there was only a skeletal white tree where the boy had been, leafless limbs reaching up into the sky, snow collecting at the crooks of the branches.

Oh, but this was odd and strange, in a deeply unsettling way. She felt once more thrown off kilter, and she shut her eyes until the sense of vertigo left her.

She was not certain how long she stood there, the snow building at her feet and covering her hair. She felt as though she could have stood there for hours, but in truth it was likely only minutes. But she did not stir until someone called her name. For a moment, she thought that it was the Commander, come after her, but the voice was wrong.

When she opened her eyes, she still felt off-kilter. The world seemed tilted and unclear, as though someone had pulled the edges of every shape until they were worn thin. Still, she was just able to focus.

Mr. Solas stood some distance from her, looking as though he had just emerged from the snowy landscape around them. He wore a fur lined coat that was just this side of ragged, and a thick scarf wrapped around his throat. His head was bare.

“Lady Lavellan?” he said once again, and there was a look that bordered on concern upon his face. The expression deepened a scar upon his brow, made it more prominent. Strange, Lavellan thought, for her to focus upon such a small detail. “Are you quite all right?”

“Mr. Solas,” Lavellan said, and was surprised to find that her teeth chattered through the words. The snow in her shoes seemed to no longer be melting. “I am…”

The answer did not come easily to her tongue. She considered it, that simple question. Was she all right? She had run out into the snow to chase a phantom boy and to try to dislodge an unwanted sense of envy that had been haunting her for days - for weeks. _Was_ she quite all right?

She thought, then, of the whispers in her house and the strange, thin creature she had seen within the rotted hall, and she thought of dalish fairy stories and how this man had sat across the room from her and said that he believed spirits were _real_.

“Mr. Solas,” she said again, as the envy that sat in her chest grew molten and bubbled up her throat, regardless of the cold that had stolen it away before. “If I told you that I believed Skyhold Manor was haunted, what would you say?”

His expression grew alarmed and he opened his mouth to speak - but she did not hear what he said. For Envy, when it sits to long within someone’s chest, can grow strong, and it had been haunting her since she had come to Skyhold. It twisted and dug its heels in and as the world froze and turned in upon itself, so too did Envy attempt to take Lavellan’s heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there is the longest chapter of this fic so far, with just under 8,000 words! And we're finally getting to Cole!
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has been reading and for all of the feedback! I hope you continue to enjoy!


	11. In which Lavellan faces down a demon.

Envy was a hard thing; envy was sharp. It had sat within her heart and ate away at it, and she had not even realized what she was feeling was not of her own making.

Here is what she saw, when Envy froze her heart and she fell in the snow and the world went white around her: she saw nothing, and then she saw darkness, and then she saw stone.

She opened her eyes to the walls of Skyhold as she knew them, the new wall hangings, the carpet she had purchased in Val Royeaux rolled out upon the floor. It was warm, like spring, like early summer, though she could not recall being in Skyhold in the spring. The windows blinded with white light; she could not see outside. There was such contrast, the light upon the floor and walls heavy slashes, but the shadows in the room were dark.

She was barefoot, not even a pair of house slippers upon her feet. The floor was warm beneath her toes. When she looked down, however, she wore the fine dress that she had worn to Madame de Fer’s party, layers of silk built up to become heavy. Upon her hand, the intricately wrought ring sat, and it seemed more immediate to her here, as though the emerald upon it was illuminated.

_Is this you? Is this who you are?_

There was a knock upon the door, and it was in a daze that she turned. Though she reached out, there was no reason to; the door was suddenly not there, and two women stood silhouetted by the light.

“Hello?” she said, or rather her voice spoke the word and her lips moved in time with the sound, but it was as though it had been drawn forth from her rather than something she chose to say.

 _It is so good to finally meet you!_ the woman who looked like Leliana said. There was something strange to her face, an odd waxy quality, as though she was not fully formed. The coral of her lips was no more than a smear of color. _You must be the Lady Lavellan._

Lavellan’s lips parted in surprise; she took one single step back, turning her gaze to the other figure. It was Lady Cassandra, which came as no surprise, but she, too, was wrong. The hollows beneath her cheekbones were so deep that they seemed to cut away part of her face; her eyes were black smudges set far back in her head. As she looked at her, it was as though her features seemed to correct themselves; the edges of her became sharp and crisp, the hollows of her cheeks filled in and became true to her memory of her.

 _The Lady Divine is dead_ said Cassandra, with the same voice she had heard before. Lavellan took another step back. The envy that sat in her heart felt like claws, digging into her.

Leliana took a step forward, her movements rough. _Certain steps must be taken to ensure the legitimacy of the claim._

“We have done this before,” she said, and it was as though the air grew sharp around her. “But this is wrong. What are you?”

She felt the laughter as though it came from her own throat.

 _I will know you,_ she heard, as two voices overlayed. _Everything you do tells me more. I will know you, and I will be you._

She felt the voice as a thrill up her spine, as heat beneath her feet and upon the top of her cheekbones. The figures before her moved again, and they were as sharp and jagged as marionettes upon their strings.

 _The Lady Divine is dead,_ the thing that looked like Cassandra said once more. _She was well loved_.

_You were there, were you not?_

_Did you kill her? Was her death of your doing?_

Lady Lavellan opened her mouth to speak - to deny it - but she found herself unable to say those words. She thought _no_ , but she could remember nothing of the night Duchess Divine died.

“I don’t know,” she said instead, and the creature - for it must have been some creature, some figment of a nightmare - that wore Leliana’s face laughed. It was a harsh sound, and it seemed to Lavellan’s ears like the sound of crows.

She turned from the sound, feeling as though it had physically hurt her. Behind her, she saw the stairs that lead up into Skyhold, carpeted in worn red. The color seemed overly saturated to her eyes, a painful crimson that wound up into the house.

She took flight, her feet bare upon the stairs. She left the two figures behind, hearing only the raucous sound of crows in her wake.

What a strange dream, she thought. What a strange, haunting dream. It felt real, and she felt lucid, but each oddity told her it was a dream. She could not remember when she had fallen asleep, but she knew this could not be real. It was a facsimile of reality, one poorly made. One that was wrong, disjointed as though viewed through a broken mirror.

She ran up the stairs, her heavy skirts caught in her hands. Each footstep burned, and the soles of her feet turned to red as color bled away from the carpeted stairs.

_Do you turn and run from confrontation, Lavellan? Is this you?_

“Only when it seems appropriate,” she said, and the laughter of the crows grew louder as the stairs gave way before her. She tumbled forward, a scream caught in her throat, and she fell into another memory.

Her dress was white, curling around her ankles as she was spun; her bare feet left red footprints upon the wood of the floor.

 _You dance well, my lady_ , said Commander Rutherford as his hand caught hers. She was turned to the side, swept into the line of dance. Her hand felt overly small within his, or his seemed overly large. She looked before her, to the other dancers, but they were only slim shadows, ill-defined like charcoal smudged upon paper in the most minimal way.

“I fail to see how this would teach you of me,” she said, and when her eyes fell upon the Commander’s face she saw, once again, the lack of detail to this vision. Like the copy of Leliana from before, there was a waxy quality to his skin, no trace of the definition that she associated with him. Without the sharpness or angles, his nose appeared as little more than a stub; his mouth was nothing more than a slash in his skin. Once more, as she looked at him, the missing things seemed to correct themselves, appearing as she blinked.

 _Everything tells me of you_ , the creature said with the Commander’s voice. _I have seen much of you, but I need to see more. Why did the Commander’s words hurt you?_

“What words?” Lavellan asked as they turned in the dance; there was no music, their feeting keeping time to an absent melody.

 _I did not realize there were still dalish clans in the area_ ,” the creature mimics, and had she not already known that this was some sort of hallucination, that the figures she saw were not the people she knew, she would know now. There was something more vicious in how this creature of envy said the Commander’s words; it was said to sting, to reveal, a far removal from the Commander’s simple comment.

“You’re just assuming that they hurt,” she said, though her heart beat faster in her chest. The creature turned her, the connection of their hands a point of intense heat. Like flame scorching her skin. The dance brought them close, then out again; envy released her hand and she turned a circle out, away from it. As she spun, she saw bright points around them, faces built from her memory. Josephine, a flicker of gold, her laughter hanging suspended in the air. Krem with an expression she could not read, speaking to a figure that seemed little more than a smudge of orange and green. Her eyes fell to the chairs in the corner; she saw Mr. Solas, his edges crisp and defined but his face obscured, only his eyes visible, and they were dark and hollow.

 _You spilled your tea; you ran_ , said Envy. _I witnessed your flight. Show me who you are, Lavellan._

“No.” She planted her feet; the silent music and the invisible pull of the dance tried to drag her feet forward, but she stood firm.

The creature hissed, twisting Commander Rutherford’s face. _I will know you, Lavellan. I will know everything, and then I will become you_.

She felt, once again, that indefinable sense of envy within her chest. It was a hot, biting pain that spread up up neck and into the bones of her cheeks. She thought, now, that this was not an emotion of her making. This was of the strange creature wearing the faces of her friends and acquaintances; this was some odd, envious being that was trying to dig into her memories, to reveal what it would need to become her.

She was not about to let that happen.

 _Obstinate,_ the creature said. _Proud. Frightened. What else are you, Lavellan? What will it take for you to become mine?_

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I am afraid that I must decline your proposal. You’ll have to do much better than _this_ , and I must warn you that my standards are very high.”

The creature wearing the Commander’s face hissed, and the floor seemed to drop away from her. She fell, though this time not a single sound left her lips; there was no shriek that caught in her throat. She fell, and she landed ankle deep in water.

 _Oh_ , she thought, and it was then that her heart twisted with an emotion entirely of her own making.

 _Show me who you are_ , said the demon, and this time Lavellan’s knees nearly gave way.

Her feet were still bare; she stood upon the marsh where her clan had lived for most of her life. She felt the mud between her toes and the sponginess of the marsh plants. Rushes stood tall around her, but the sky was strange - green and grown and stretching on forever.

 _Is this you?_ the creature asked. _Not at lady at all, it seems_.

She saw the camp, the small houses that they made their own. No tall stone walls were to be found here, or fine clothing, or fancy shoes covered in beading. She saw, instead, the aravels and the more permanent dwellings they had constructed near them in her youth; she saw, instead, the halla with their delicate legs and their great horns that had been carved into elaborate designs. She smelled the salt from the sea just past the marsh, the rot of the plants in the water, the smoke from the fire.

She stepped out of the water, onto firm land. The hem of her dress was waterlogged, and it was no longer silk. She wore rough spun wool, all in earthen colors. But upon her finger still rested the emerald ring.

The camp was silent, save for the sighs of the halla and the trilling of the marshland birds.

 _What is this, Lavellan?_ asked the demon. _Why are there no dalish near Wycome?_

It seemed strange that Envy should be drawing forth things such a these, pulling at things that hurt, things that were feared. But Envy had sunk so deep into her heart as to tear at all of the deepest parts of her. Try as she might, Lavellan could not dislodge it.

The camp was silent. Terribly, horribly silent. Lavellan stood in the center of it and tried not to think of why.

“You don’t have to listen to it,” said a voice, one which cut through the silence. It would have startled her, save that it was little more than a whisper. A soft, thin voice that did not pitch so strangely as the others. It was soft, fleeting, a gentle voice. Distant, like it was barely there. Kind.

“Who is there?” she called out, for the voice did not sound like the creature of envy and it did not sound like herself.

“I am,” said the voice, and Lady Lavellan looked in the direction of the sound. At first she did not see him. But there was a shifting in the dream, and he seemed to emerge from the surroundings as though sculpted from the setting. She had the strongest sense that she had seen him before.

“I know you,” she said, and she saw the trace of a smile upon his face. “You were the boy in the snow.”

“My name’s Cole,” said the boy. “I want to help.”

This close, she could see that he was, indeed, young. Much younger than she was; he was, perhaps, almost a man, but not quite. And he was a thin, raggedy boy, with dirty hair the color of straw bleached by the sun that had been left too long to grow. There was a skeletal quality to him, like the world had pinched him and drawn him thin; his cheeks were sunken, as were his eyes - they appeared large and bulbous in his head, the delicate skin beneath bruised and purple-blue. Upon his skin she saw the faded traces of scar, little pock marks that looked very old, barely more than dappling, but still there.

He looked, she thought, very much like a boy just upon the cusp of death. Or, rather more morbidly, like a dead boy who was still was still walking.

“How can you help me?” She found it strange, but somehow the claws of envy loosened in her chest. She heard, as though from a distance, the screeching of the creature, but it was as though this boy’s presence dampened it.

“You’re trapped,” the boy said, and she saw clearly that he was perched upon one of the aravels. His shoes were cracked and worn; she could see the toes of his right foot. “Envy saw a way in, which was a way out from where it was trapped. But it wasn’t strong enough, so your heart held it at bay, until it couldn’t. Envy wants to be you, but it has to know you first. It needs to _see_ , but it can’t make you show it. Not if you don’t want to.”

Lavellan gave a quite inelegant snort. “I’m very certain that I haven’t wanted to show it anything this entire time, but it’s done a very good job of making me.”

“It’s grasping, haunting, trying to keep a hold of you,” said the boy. His skin was so translucent that she could see the blue of the veins that lay beneath. “But you can block it out.”

 _Stop it_ , came the voice of the creature - of Envy. _No one wants you here, you pathetic creature._

“She does,” said the boy, and Lavellan was only slightly surprised to realize that she did.

“I do.” Speaking it aloud made Envy hiss once more, and it was a sharp and bitter sound. “Now, how do I get this thing out of my heart, Cole?”

But before the boy could speak, the scene shifted again. It was harsher, more abrupt, and she found herself tumbling once more.

“You can stop this any time, please,” she called to the Envy demon, and she found herself seated. This time, however, she did not know where she was.

 _Oh, what’s this?_ said the demon, and there was something cloying and sly about how it spoke. _What is this little secret, tucked away?_

Lavellan looked at the room she had found herself it. It was a richly adorned room, with all the trappings of the elite of Orlais. She saw, upon many of the surfaces, the emblem of a sunburst.

The ring upon her finger felt hot, scorchingly so. She looked down and saw how it glittered and gleamed.

 _Lady Lavellan?_ said a voice, not quite the demons. Someone else’s voice, filtered through her memory. _Lady Divine requests your presence._

Lavellan’s eyes widened. _This_ was something she did not remember. This was something new. The ring felt heated upon her finger; she rose from where she was seated, feeling odd and strange in the dress that Deshana had found the means to supply her with when she had sent her south -

“You can’t let it see this,” Cole said, suddenly at her side. “If it sees this, then it gains another piece of you.”

Lavellan turned to the boy; her eyes were wide, and every part of her wished to do nothing more than to see how this memory progressed.

“But I do not _remember_ this,” she said. “ _I_ need to see this.”

“It’s hungry, jealous, wanting nothing more than to see all that you are, everything that has brought you to now. It cannot understand why you are who you are. You cannot allow it to, or it will take your heart,” Cole said, and again his voice and presence drew her from the spell of the memories.

“You make entirely too much sense,” she told the boy, and he smiled like she had given him a grand compliment.

 _No. You will listen to_ me _,_ said Envy, and she saw it now as the memory unraveled around her. It was the strange, pale creature she had seen in that moment in Skyhold Manor, tall and spindly and stretched thin, its face something out of a nightmare. _You will show me this memory and I will know you. I will know everything about you, Lavellan, and I will take it all._

It was a very poor bartering technique, Lavellan thought. Though she wanted to see this memory, though she wished dearly to know - how had she met the Divine? How had she come to be willed Skyhold Manor? How had the heirloom ring come to sit upon her finger?

She thought, then, of the feeling of envy that had sat within her heart for so many days now, how it had made so little sense to her. It had not come out of moments where she truly felt envious of others, and so she had felt unsettled by what she had thought was her own emotion.

“ _Oh,_ ” said Lady Lavellan, understanding suddenly dawning upon her. “It is not _my_ envy that you feed upon. _You_ are envious of _me_.” She smiled then, though her eyes were sad. It was not a kind smile. “What a pitiful creature you are.”

The creature shrieked then, long and loud, it’s mouth a great gaping maw of uneven teeth. It unfurled its long, spider-like limbs and it lunged at her, knocking her from her feet.

 _No, no, no! I will have you, I will_ be _you!_ You _will not pity_ me!

It bowled her over, and she lay upon her back, near-stunned. But rather than try to tear her heart from her chest, the creature of envy continued to run, and Lavellan rolled to her stomach to see it scuttling forward, it’s limbs moving in an odd rhythm.

“It is hard, hurting, wanting. It sees you, and it wants to be you. It _needs_ to be you, but pity hurts it.”

“But why does it want to _be_ me?” she asked, and the boy looked confused.

“Why? It is a demon of envy. It longs, wants, desires things that are not its own. But it hides its reason, keeps it locked away like a secret. Wanting, wanting, always wanting what another has. If you find why, you will find the way out.”

Lavellan looked at him, this strange, near-intangible boy with his ragged hair. “Are you certain?” she asked him, and again, he tipped his head to the side as though considering this deeply.

“Yes?” But his voice was vague, not certain. “How do you destroy envy if you do not understand the root of what it is?”

“ _Hmm._ ” Lavellan pushed herself to her feet, dusting her hands down the front of her dress. It was hopelessly creased now, the silk near-ruined. “That makes sense. But how do I do that?”

The boy’s eyes were very large, very wide, the skin beneath blue like a bruise. She thought he looked very ill indeed.

“You go back,” he said. “You go up. It is in your mind, but that means you are in its mind as well.”

Lavellan drew in a deep breath, so deep that her ribs strained against the boning of her corset.

“Thank you, Cole,” she said, and she gathered herself up and turned around, ignoring the open door that would, presumably, lead her to the Lady Divine and the events she could not remember.

Behind her, there were stairs that cut away into the dream, and it was these that she walked up, step after step, following the path the Envy demon had cut.

She was very angry. This creature had burrowed its way into her heart, into her mind, and it was feeding upon who she was. It was something quite unforgivable, and something quite unsettling. It was also something she was certain she would panic over - a demon of Envy? It was something out of an old story, out of half-forgotten myth. But now, she could only continue onward.

She wondered about the boy as well, who had seemed to disappear into nothing as she hurried up the stairs. There was no definable reason to trust him, but he seemed...trustworthy, somehow. Kind, sweet, like the calming moments after a nightmare has passed when one realized that it was only a dream.

She would think on this all later. For now, she had to find a way out.

Lavellan followed the stairs up, higher and higher, away from her own memory. They turned from wooden stairs to those cut of stone, and then they branched into a long hall. Before her, just at the edge of her sight, scuttled Envy, fleeing now that she had realized what it was.

It wanted to be _her_ , but why?

The hall changed and became familiar as she ran, and it took her a moment to realize where she was. It was the hall where she had first seen the demon out of the corner of her eye. She was in Skyhold Manor once more, and yet it was not the Skyhold she knew. There were paintings upon the walls of the hall that she only knew as part of a ruin, and there was carpet upon ground. There was something familiar to it all, quite apart from the knowledge that it was Skyhold.

It was not until she followed the demon through the door at the end of the hall - the one which had swung shut of its own accord weeks before - that she realized what the familiarity was. For what she stumbled out into was a memory not of her own making, and before her she saw the flickering form of a man who was dalish - _no,_ she thought, as the memory whispered to her, he was elvhen. And the hangings on the walls, the paintings, they were elvhen as well, with motifs that could still be seen in the decorations of her people.

She saw this man, and across from him, by the door, she saw a figure that she knew was the envy demon, though it wore a different face. A human face, and she felt _such_ want filling the memory. Such envy, for the man who owned the manor upon the hill, back when it had not been half-ruined. Lavellan could only guess how old the memory was, but she knew, somehow, that it was ancient.

“He wanted what was not his,” Cole said softly, and she saw the boy perched upon the banister. “He wanted it, so he took it.”

The memory was a distorted flash of images, and she could not decipher all of them. She heard no names, no spoken words, just the strongest sense of envy and want, a desire to tear things away from the one who had them.

There was blood upon the carpet, and it was so very red within the memory that it nearly hurt Lavellan’s eyes.

 _Get out_ , said the Envy demon, who looked like some sort of grotesque thing, standing there in the middle of the memory. _This is not yours. I will take what_ you _are, Lavellan, and I -_

“Will have nothing,” Lavellan said, feeling the fast-pitched beating of her heart as she spoke. “You wanted Skyhold Manor and everything that came with it, didn’t you? That’s what this is. You wanted it, and, perhaps, it was even yours for some time.”

“It lived in the walls,” the boy said, from where he still crouched at the stair. “It wanted Skyhold, but it became lost and forgotten there, hiding in the ruined spaces. There was no threat until you came, shining and bright, so easily taking what it had wanted because you had been given it.”

_Shut up, you wretched thing!_

“You cannot have any of this,” Lavellan said, and the creature turned to her once more, its eyeless face inches from hers, it’s great gaping mouth opened so as to devour her. She looked at it and she felt not fear, only pity and a deep seated anger. “It was not yours to begin with, and it will never be yours. You cannot take my place. You cannot have my heart, no matter how you might try to eat it.”

Envy shrieked, it’s breath hot upon her face, but Lavellan did not flinch. Instead, she reached out and placed both hands upon its chest. Her palms burned where they touched its skin.

“It is time for you to leave,” she said. “You are not welcome here. Goodbye.”

She shoved it, and it fell back, staggered away from her. So great had been the force behind her movement that it crashed against the floor and it seemed, then, to dissolve, to melt away. As though her actions and her words had forced it away.

And then there was only ash that drifted in the air and pooled upon the ground, and the memory melted away until Skyhold Manor looked how she knew it. The boy hopped down from his perch upon the stairs and sifted his fingers through the dusted remains of the creature.

“It did not have to be as it was,” he said sadly. “It could have made another choice, but it didn’t. But it is gone now, and you are safe.”

Lavellan felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her chest. “Thank you, Cole,” she said, and she smiled.

“There is a man waiting for you, outside,” said Cole then, looking up at her from where he crouched on the floor. “Caught in a moment, time standing still. He is worried about you, though he can do nothing until you wake.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Lavellan breathed, remembering her flight through the snow, the boy who became a tree who followed her into her dreams, the man in his ragged coat who came out of the forest. “You mean Mr. Solas.”

“He was surprised by what you said.” Cole drew a little pattern in the ashes of the demon, disturbing them. Little flecks of them seemed to turn to gold as they lingered in the air. “And then you were not there anymore. But you can go back and he will not worry anymore.”

Lavellan looked around herself, at the wavering edges of what was no more than a dream now. “How do I get out?” she asked him, and Cole lifted his hand.

“There,” he said, pointing towards the heavy front doors of Skyhold, and Lavellan walked to them and threw them open. There was, then, only bright light, white and cold, and she woke up.

***

It was an odd thing to focus on, the scar above his brow, but it was the first thing which Lavellan saw when she came, blinking, back into consciousness. There was such a sense of vertigo around her, the blinding white of the snow that made the world seamless, that it was his face which allowed for a sense of grounding.

It was a little flaw in his skin, like a rock had perhaps struck him once in his youth, leaving behind a mark only slightly faded with time. From there, her eyes flickered to his eyebrows, to his cheeks; he had freckles, she thought, very lightly dusted over his skin.

“-dy Lavellan,” Mr. Solas said, and she thought that, when he was not being utterly condescending, his voice had a very pleasant cadence. “Focus upon my voice. Breathe. You are not dreaming.”

“Oh, Mr. Solas,” she said, and was pleased to hear no strange echo behind her voice. “I know that. Dreaming would be far less…” She frowned, and it was then that she realized she was flat upon her back upon the ground. Upon the _snow_ , which she was surprised to find was not melting against her skin. “ _Cold_ ,” she said, and now that her mind and heart were clear she realized how much warmth had been stolen from her body. Her hands shook and her body shivered, and it took her several tries to push herself upright.

She wondered how long she had been out in the snow, for the odd distortion of reality that had come with the demon made her uncertain.

It took her one long, blinking moment to realize that Mr. Solas was holding out his hand towards her, and a moment longer to accept it. Her fingers felt like ice, and when she was upright she found that her legs were so cold that she could barely stand, and there was a strong sense of exhaustion that hung over her.

“We are not far from Nightingale Hall,” he said. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” she said, though she was not certain. “I am a-afraid I was too l-long outside in the cold -” Her words broke off, for he had removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. There was a small measure of warmth that seeped into her; her cheeks seemed to burn with it.

For a moment, she could only stare at him; he seemed quite unfazed by the cold. Then, with shaking hands, she drew the coat close around herself.

“Thank you, Mr. Solas,” she said softly, and she could suddenly not look at him. She looked down, instead, at where she had fallen in the snow. She saw what looked like ash, caught there in the displaced snow, and she thought that it might not have been a dream after all.

She could not deny the lingering taste of magic upon her tongue, either.

“It is of no inconvenience to me,” he said, but he had given her his coat and _certainly_ that must be of some inconvenience, given the cold. But she did not question it then, now when she had been so thoughtless as to run out into the snow without even a scarf.

“Nevertheless, I am g-grateful,” she said, stuttering over her words as the chattering of her teeth continued. “Shall we?” she added, intending to indicate a return to Nightingale Hall was in order, but she found that she was quite unable to remain on her feet. Her legs were traitorous things, she thought, much abused by the cold, and they no longer wanted to hold her upright.

Instead of finding herself once more in the snow, she found herself instead in the arms of Mr. Solas. She felt, along with exhaustion and cold, a strong sense of mortification.

“It appears that you cannot walk,” he said, as though he were recounting some simple fact instead of standing with her body slanted sideways against his and his arm around her. “You are right in that you have been in the cold too long.”

She opened her mouth to say something - to protest that she _could_ walk, if she could only convince her frozen limbs to do so - but she found that the sky tipped before her as she was swept off her feet and into his arms. She gave a breathless squeak as she found herself held against his chest, one of his arms around her back, the other hooked beneath the crook of her knees.

“Really, I _m-must_ protest,” she said, her words undermined by how she shook and how her voice quaked. “I’m certain this is not at all appropriate.”

“Would you prefer I left you behind?” he asked her as he began to trudge forward through the snow, though perhaps trudge was the wrong word, as he seemed to move quite easily. “I would prefer not to see you freeze to death in the snow.”

“Ah.” She did not have the energy to argue with him further. She felt very silly about the entire thing, and she wondered if this was a normal thing to feel after defeating demons within one’s own mind, nearly freezing to death, and finding oneself carried by infuriating men. She had no prior experience with any of those things, so she could not say.

From how he held her, she could just see behind them, the white expanse of snow broken by trees. She frowned then, remembering the entirety of her dream.

“Was there a boy?” she asked him, and her words were, perhaps, so odd that he frowned.

“A boy? There was no boy with you when you fell,” he said, and Lavellan felt very silly indeed.

“Nevermind.” She settled her head against his shoulder and willed her teeth to stop their chattering. She thought of the strange boy named Cole and wondered at who - and what - he was as Mr. Solas carried her towards Nightingale Hall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that takes us through the odd, dream bit, and now Cole has finally been introduced! Also, a little bit of the history on Skyhold Manor, as well as a brief look into Lavellan's backstory!


	12. In which there are discussions of spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her ordeal with the Envy demon, Lavellan takes some time to recover.

It was to a great clamor that they returned to Nightingale Hall. She had departed in such a rush that she had left both Lady Leliana and Commander Rutherford in a state of panic, and the former fussed over her as Mr. Solas brought her in through the door.

Lady Lavellan was only dimly aware of the general upset with which their arrival created; she had, as Mr. Solas carried her towards Nightingale Hall, felt more and more weary, and she would have been quite content to settle her head against his shoulder and turn herself against the heat of his body and sleep, regardless of how improper all of that would be. She had been so cold and he had been quite warm, but he continued to jostle her and to tell her that she must not sleep, not yet.

Cole had been right; Mr. Solas _did_ seem to be quite worried about her.

She mused on this thought as she was hurried up to the guest room she had been staying in. She did not notice Leliana’s panicked tone of voice, or the look upon Commander Rutherford’s face. She barely, in fact, noticed when Mr. Solas set her down upon her bed and then made a hasty exit, though she realized that she no longer felt the warmth of him where he had held her. Though she had sought to stave off unconsciousness, it claimed her swiftly, cold and exhaustion from her encounter with the demon warring with her until she simply could no longer stay awake.

Later, she would admit that she had not been fully prepared for a southern winter. Wycome was so far north, in comparison, that it simply did not get so cold. Not in the lowlands, at any rate, and not so close to the sea where the great body of water kept temperatures from fluctuating so extremely. Still, she _should_ have known not to run so far outside without a heavy coat.

 _Should have_ , but the circumstances had, after all, been very odd indeed.

She was not certain how long she slept, though she was vaguely aware of waking several times, somewhat delirious each time, and each time with the sense that someone was next to her. At one point, she was certain that she glanced over to see a boy with a face like as to the dead and a hat far too large for his thin frame sitting upon the chair beside her.

“You are feverish, fighting, falling,” he seemed to say. “But it will pass. You are bright, brighter than anything that burns; fires cannot hurt you forever.”

It all seemed so odd to her; when she woke again, she was not certain if he had truly been there, or if he had only been a dream.

FInally, she woke fully, herself once more. Bright white light streamed in through the window, broken only by the supports in the window pane. She was disoriented at first, her memories fragmented and scattered by fever, and to find herself within a warm bed with little to no memory of how she had gotten there was unsettling.

She lay there, blinking, feeling far better than she had previously, though particularly unkempt. There was grit in the corners of her eyes, and her skin had the feeling of old sweat dried upon it.

It was good that there was no one in the room when she awoke, for as she tried to collect herself, she was suddenly struck by the memory of her collapse in the snow and she remembered, quite clearly, the _how_ of her return to Nightingale Hall.

“ _Oh no_ ,” she said, feeling her face flame in embarrassment, and she turned over so that she was face down upon the pillows of the bed. For she remembered, _quite_ clearly, how Mr. Solas had caught her and carried her, his coat around her shoulders and her face pressed against _his_ shoulder. And he had returned her to the house where _everyone_ had seen.

Lavellan was positively mortified.

Still, Lavellan was, for the most part, a practical woman, and she could not deny the facts of what had occurred. She had, after all, collapsed, and had Mr. Solas not carried her, she would have lain in the snow until she was completely frozen. That not a desirable thing to happen, and while she would have preferred to walk, if that was out of the question then being carried was...not the worst thing, she supposed.

It was not the worst thing, and she had to admit that she was somewhat more amiable towards Mr. Solas after their shared afternoon with Dorian and Felix. She would have to thank him, she supposed. It was only proper.

And she would need to speak with him again, at any rate, she admitted as she lay face down upon the pillow. He seemed to know something of spirits and demons, or at least held a belief in them that exceeded mere superstition.

She could have simply passed the entire experience with the envy demon off as a fever dream brought on by the cold, except that there were too many occurrences that could be attributed to it since her arrival at Skyhold manor. She could not simply rule it out as impossible because demons and spirits were largely considered to be something out of folk tales. After all, there were enough mentions in the lore of her people that it seemed as though, _once_ , they had been common.

A thought struck her, then - a way to confirm, at least in part, the possibility of it all. The dream of the demon had shown her things she had known as well as things she had _not_ known. She could see if she could verify either of them - the meeting with Lady Divine, if she could recall the name of the serving woman who had announced her, could not be so impossible to trace, could it? And what the demon had shown her…

She wondered, if she looked into the history of Skyhold manor, if she would find it once owned by an elvhen man.

“Oh! You are awake!” she heard then, before she could consider it further. Lavellan turned her head to the side so that she could see, her cheek now against the pillow. It was a servant, a young woman who came in carrying what looked to be water and food - to replace, she saw, a similar tray that sat on the nightstand. “I must tell the lady at once!”

She placed the tray down almost unsteadily; she seemed surprised or, perhaps, shaken in some manner, by Lavellan being awake, but she darted out of the room quickly. Lavellan, for her part, sat up, feeling only the slightest disorientation. Her mouth was very dry, she found, and she was glad for the water that had been brought to her.

She had only just propped herself up when Lady Leliana near burst through the door.

“You’ve finally woken up!” she said, and Lavellan was somewhat stunned by the relief in her voice. “We were quite worried about you. How are you feeling?”

“I’m...fine?” Lavellan said, though she was not entirely certain on that. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Quite some time,” Leliana said as she sat upon the side of the bed, which was truly an evasive answer.

“A day?” Lavellan asked her, and though Leliana kept a careful mask upon her face, there was the slightest bit of tension in her expression that betrayed her. “ _Two_ days?”

“You have been asleep for three days,” Leliana said, and Lavellan felt her heart flip at that, and she was, then, forced to confront that the clenching of her stomach _was_ hunger. “We were all very worried. Cullen has been beside himself - he went to look for you after your flight from the house, but could not find you. We are all very grateful to Mr. Solas that he found you!”

“I am sorry that I worried you,” Lavellan said, and she sipped at the glass of water she held to ease the pain in her stomach. “I did not intend to.”

“You fled the house in the middle of winter with no explanation and without the proper attire to do such a thing.” There was a sternness to Leliana’s voice that she kept from her expression. “It is only natural that we should be concerned! What happened, between you and the Commander, to cause such flight?”

“Nothing!” The word flew too quickly from her lips and Leliana’s eyes narrowed. Lavellan settled the glass of water upon the nightstand to allow herself a moment to collect herself. She could not tell what precisely had happened, but some form of the truth might do. “Truly, he did nothing. I felt faint and needed some air, and when I stepped out I thought that I - well, I thought that I saw a boy, out in the snow!”

“And you went out after him?”

Lavellan nodded. “Yes. I was worried for him, but I made a miscalculation and - well, I did not take my coat.”

“Did you find this boy?” Leliana asked her, and Lavellan could tell she was not fully convinced of her story.

“No. I did not.” How could she tell the truth on this? That the boy might have been only a figment of her imagination, or he might have been something far more unsettling? “I fear I have been quite unprepared for the cold of your southern winters - Wycome is much more temperate this time of year, and I did not anticipate how quickly a chill would set in.”

Still, Leliana looked as though she did not fully believe her, but there was not much more she could say. She did, at least, seem mollified that Commander Rutherford had not been the root of Lavellan’s flight.

***

As Lady Lavellan had quickly come to realize, news spread quickly through a town such as Haven, particularly when the news was about the oddities of the unexpected heiress of Skyhold manor. That she was better regarded than she had previously been did not mean all that much when it came to how fast gossip would spread.

In this case, however, she was grateful for it, for it meant that she was not long into her recovery before she found herself with very welcome guests.

It was on the first day that she made her way outside of the guest bedroom; she had settled herself in the sitting room with a book, still feeling weak and drawn from the entire ordeal. Though she could not admit it to anyone, she thought that at least a portion of how ill she still felt was the aftermath of the encounter with the demon, though she could not very well tell anyone that such a creature of envy had tried to consume her heart!

She had just gotten to a particularly engaging part of the book - a dashing pirate captain with an overly large hat had just appeared, and the unexpected twist had thrown the entire plot into upheaval - when the door opened.

“My lady, you have visitors -” she heard, just before two very familiar people entered the room.

Her face lit up when she saw them. “Bull! Krem! Oh, I am so glad to see you!” She began to rise from her chair, but Bull quickly gestured for her to remain seated, something she was quite glad for.

“We heard you were under the weather, Boss,” he said, and the what had once been a joking nickname now seemed an endearment on his tongue.

“Had to make sure someone was taking proper care of you,” Krem added, and the two of them settled down in chairs opposite her. Or, rather, Krem did - Bull hesitated for a moment, for he was so large that he often had to consider whether a chair could handle his considerable bulk of bone and muscle. When he sat, he allowed his long legs to sprawl out before him rather than attempting to sit properly. “Plus, finding out what actually happened was shit - pardon me. We tried to come when we heard you were dead, but -”

Lavellan’s eyes had widened in alarm. “I was _what?_ ”

“You know how gossip goes. First you were sick, then you were dying, then someone decided to change the story so you were dead. Got the chief here all riled up; practically knocked down the doors before that Lady Cassandra set him straight.”

To his credit, the Iron Bull looked someone abashed about this.

Lavellan gave a weary sigh. “As you can see, I am neither dying nor dead. Honestly, who would spread such a rumor? I’ve been ill, but nothing so dire as to warrant rumors of my death.”

“Not what people are saying, but you’re the preferred topic of gossip these days, boss.”

“I swooned in the snow, it’s a simple as that,” Lavellan said, only a little testily, and Krem laughed, likely over her use of the word _swooned_.

It was then that there was such a clattering at the door that Lavellan started, and each of those sitting within the room turned to see who had caused such a clamor. Miss Harding stood in the doorway, breathing hard as though she had just run all the way up from the village center in the snow, and given how her coat was still on and her boots covered in it, that seemed quite likely.

“You’re not dead!” were the first words from her mouth, and Lavellan felt a great irritation at how quickly false gossip seemed to spread.

“A Miss Harding, to see you,” said the harried looking doorman who appeared in her wake. Lady Lavellan thanked him; Miss Harding did not seem to be unduly bothered by upsetting convention, and Lavellan had little personal problem with that.

“I am very glad to see you, Miss Harding,” she said. “Please, excuse me if I do not stand - I am still recovering, though I was _not_ near death and I did not die, so if you all could please spread that bit of information I would be _very_ appreciative. And allow me to introduce my friends. Miss Harding, this is Captain Iron Bull of the Chargers -”

“ _The_ Iron Bull,” Bull said, standing as was appropriate. It was never so evident how massive a man he was than when standing before Miss Harding, who seemed to be barely a fraction of his grand height.

“It’s nice to meet you, Captain the Iron Bull,” said Miss Harding rather cheekily, and she shook his hand rather than curtseying.

“And _this_ is Mr. Cremisius Aclassi,” Lavellan said, it what she fully intended to be an initial introduction. From where she sat, she could only see Krem’s face in profile as he stood, but there was something about the expression he wore that seemed quite different from any she’d seen him wear before.

“Miss Harding!” he said, and there was something of surprise in his voice. Miss Harding had a similarly surprised look upon her face, which quickly changed to her normal bright smile.

“Mr. Aclassi! _Delighted_ to see you again!” she said, and what occurred next was something of the most awkward greeting that Lavellan had ever seen. Miss Harding extended her hand in much the same manner as she had to Bull; when Krem took it, however, it was with the slightest of bows over it. Had they each stuck to just one manner of greeting, it would not have been the awkward mess that it became, but Krem bowed and Miss Harding gave a small, ungainly curtsey, and then shook his hand quite firmly.

“You’ve met?” Lavellan asked as they finally dropped their hands back to their sides; she wasn’t certain if it was not a trick of the light, but a dark flush seemed to creep along Krem’s cheekbones.

“Oh, yes. Briefly,” said Miss Harding, taking a seat beside Lavellan. Bull had resumed his unceremonious sprawl upon his chair, but Krem remained standing for a moment longer; like the handshake, it was a moment too long. Finally, he sat.

“At Lady Montilyet’s gala,” Krem said, and Miss Harding beamed.

“He had wine spilled all down his front,” she told Lavellan in something of a stage whisper, and the laugh that came from Bull told them all that this would not be something quickly forgotten.

Lavellan, for her part, gave Krem a _look_. She remembered, then, when he had disappeared at the party after spilling wine all down his dress uniform, and she recalled how she had been quite distracted for the rest of the evening and had not ever discovered why he had darted off so quickly.

“I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you around Haven, but I guess you had some sort of soldier business to take care of?” Miss Harding continued, and at this Krem nodded.

“We were out on the coast,” he said, and nodded towards Bull. “Chief heard about a job that needed doing, so we did it. Nothing too far out of the routine.”

“Northern or eastern coast?” she asked him, sitting forward on the edge of her seat, her toes just barely brushing the ground. “Or did you go _all_ the way across the continent to where there is, presumably, a western coast of some sort?”

Krem laughed at that. “North. Along the Amaranthine.”

Miss Harding gave something of a wistful sigh. “Someday,” she told them, “I will go further from Redcliffe than simply _Haven_.”

It was something of an announcement, but Lavellan remembered the little Miss Harding had spoken of her family life. She was, after all, the daughter of a seamstress who had not ventured outside of Redcliffe herself until she had come to Haven.

“If you’d like, Miss Harding,” Lavellan said, making a decision then and there, “you are quite welcome to come along with me the next time I travel to Val Royeaux, though that will likely not be until sometime after the spring thaw.”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Miss Harding, whose eyes had gone very wide. “That would be _so_ lovely.”

***

While it was lovely to have visitors, Lavellan quickly grew tired in the weary way that one recovering from an illness could become, and so after some time they departed. While she longed to ask Krem more about what sort of first meeting he had with Miss Harding that had resulted in such an awkward second meeting, that was a question that she would keep in reserve for another day.

She stayed in the sitting room for the afternoon, intending to read. Instead, she found herself being awoken some time later by Lady Leliana.

“Oh, goodness, did I fall asleep?” she said when she realized the hour.

“Yes. I hadn’t intended to wake you, but there will be super soon and I thought you should like to know.”

Lavellan sat upright and stretched her back; she found that the angle which she had slept upon the couch had caused quite a discomfort in her neck. “I will be there shortly,” she assured her.

Leliana’s eyes fell upon the borrowed copy of _Hard in Hightown_ that lay beside Lavellan on the couch. “Oh, have you finished with that yet?” she asked her with some enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes! I _had_ meant to return it to you,” she said, picking up the thick volume and passing it to her. “Mr. Tethras certainly has a talent for...pulp.”

“That he does,” Leliana agreed, taking the book. “I do have the sequel, if you would like to borrow it?”

“Of course!” For all that it had taken Lavellan some time to finish the first volume, she was quite interested in continuing the adventure. Mr. Tethras’ charm was quite evident in his writing, and it made even the clunkiest of the chapters an enjoyable read.

Now here was the thing that Lady Lavellan forgot when she gave _Hard in Hightown_ back to Leliana: the copy of Lady Fiona’s reforms was still carefully tucked inside the front cover.

***

There was one visitor, who came several days later, who Lavellan had been both dreading and waiting on, and the fact that she found even part of her wishing for his visit was somewhat unsettling. Thinking on him was equal parts gratitude, embarrassment, and annoyance, which was a thoroughly disquieting combination.

She spoke, of course, of Mr. Solas.

She had expected him sooner, though she was not certain _why_ she had thought he would be there when she woke. He did not live in Nightingale Hall, nor did she know where, precisely, he lived, and he had little reason to call upon her. Still, she had anticipated his visit, for she thought it would likely be one filled with awkwardness - at least on her part.

Though it could not be as awkward as her first meeting with Commander Rutherford after waking from her fever, for that had been a conversation where he had not quite met her eyes until she had assured him - repeatedly - that her flight into the snow had not been due to any offense that he had caused.

It was once again snowing the day that he came to Nightingale Hall, and she wondered that he braved the cold so often. An idiosyncrasy of the man, she determined, or perhaps simply foolishness on his part. Still, when he arrived he did not seem as though the cold bothered him at all.

He came to Nightingale Hall in the midmorning, while both Cassandra and Leliana were otherwise occupied - Leliana with business between her and the Commander. Cassandra had made no more mention than she was out to see Lady Montilyet, and had departed very early on in the day.

Lady Lavellan had just come down the stairs when Mr. Solas was let in through the front door, and as he stopped to shake snow from his coat so did he look up to see her there. For the briefest of moments, Lavellan did not move. She stood upon the stairs as though the moment in time was suspended, her hand upon the bannister, and he looked up at her, a thoroughly unreadable look upon his face.

“Mr. Solas,” she said, and the moment was broken. She stepped lightly down the stairs until she stood at the base; she saw that he held a wrapped parcel at his side, too small to be a canvas.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said, inclining his head. “Is Lady Cassandra in?”

“She is out for the day,” she told him, keeping one hand upon the rail to steady herself. “If you have some business with her -”

“I simply meant to return some books to her,” he said, and that explained the parcel he carried. Lavellan raised an eyebrow.

“Books?” she asked, for she was nothing if not a curious person, and it seemed strange to her that he would, once again, come here while it snowed heavily outside when he could have easily waited.

“On philosophy,” he replied, “and Nevarran culture. Though she seemed less agreeable when I asked to borrow the latter.”

“If you’d like, I could see that she receives the books,” Lavellan said, and there was a brief moment where Mr. Solas seemed to consider this before he held out the wrapped books to her.

“If you would,” he said, and she stepped forward to take them from him. His fingers brushed hers as she took the package; he wore gloves that left his fingers near entirely bare, and his skin upon hers was cool but not cold. Intellectually, she knew that, but where his hand grazed hers, her skin seemed to burn.

She pulled away from him quickly, pressing the wrapped books against her chest. Her heart seemed to be beating somewhat faster than normal, though she put it down to the anxiety inherent in this first meeting since he had carried her through the snow.

Something flickered across Mr. Solas’ face at her quick movement, though he said nothing. Instead, he turned away, head tipped up, as though he was examining the paintings that hung in the foyer of Nightingale Hall.

“Are you well, Lady Lavellan?” he asked after a moment. Lavellan followed his gaze to the painting he was, presumably, looking at. It was a large portrait of a moustached man; there was something about his cheekbones that reminded her of Cassandra.

“Quite well,” she said, which was not untrue. “Though I have learned my lesson about running about in the snow with no coat.”

Mr. Solas gave a soft chuckle. “A less all must learn at some point. Still, I am glad to see that you are well. After our last meeting, I was...concerned about the state you were in.”

Lavellan swallowed down the nervous jump of her heart. “I am, of course, touched by your concern, though you needn’t spare any thought. It was a silly mistake of mine, and I am fine now.”

For a moment, Mr. Solas looked down from the portrait upon the wall, and then he looked back to her. There was a peculiar softness around his eyes that surprised her.

“May I speak plainly?” he said, though it was obvious that he did not truly mean it as a question, for he continued to speak before she could give any assent. “You behaved most peculiarly that day, and I believe _that_ was of cause for great concern.”

“Oh.” She felt her face heat; her embarrassment resurfacing and increasing tenfold. “I do apologize; I was unwell and unused to the cold -”

“You mentioned that you believed Skyhold might be haunted,” Mr. Solas said then, before she could say anything which would embarrass herself further. Her grip upon the books she clutched to her chest tightened.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed, for she had, of course, lept to the wrong conclusion as to what peculiar behavior she had shown. She then glanced around the foyer; there was no one there, but she worried at someone happening upon them while they had this conversation. “Mr. Solas, would you please accompany me to the sitting room? I should put these books down.”

He did seem to understand her intent and nodded. Still, her heart beat faster than normal as he walked beside her down the hall. She ushered him into the sitting room, and though it was likely not entirely appropriate, she closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Solas,” she said as she set the parcel of books upon one of the small, decorative tables that stood in the room. She did not look at him. “You have spoken with some familiarity on the subject of spirits. I must admit that I know little beyond the normal folklore associated with them, and the speculation upon their existence in old accounts of magical exploration. Tell me, how likely would it be to encounter a spirit in this day and age?”

“To encounter a spirit? It is likely that they are more common than people believe, though most do not know what they see when they encounter one. Why do you ask?”

Lavellan looked up then to find him looking at her intently, his hands carefully clasped behind his back. He had such a peculiar, intent quality to his gaze under the most normal of circumstances, and it was particularly evident now. She straightened, tipping her head just the slightest upward, and met his gaze fully.

“You are an intelligent man, Mr. Solas, if not always the most tactful. I am certain that you already have so idea as to my intent.”

To her surprise, he chuckled once again. “That is true, on all accounts.” But he sobered then, his face once again more or less impassive. “I had my suspicions when you said you believed Skyhold to be haunted, and that suspicion was strengthened by your immediate collapse. Tell me, what manner of spirit did you encounter?”

That he believed her so quickly was...startling. And it startled her further that she felt as though she could speak to him of this, when speaking to him of other matters had proved to be quite ill-advised. But she could think of no other to speak to of this, not even Lord Dorian who had dismissed the concept of spirits to readily.

“Envy,” she said, and she saw both his eyebrows rise.

“Fascinating,” he said, as though he truly believed that about it. “A demon of envy is a dangerous being, yet you are clearly not possessed by it now.”

“How would you know if I was?”

He frowned then, quite suddenly, as though he did not like this particular line of questioning. “There are ways of knowing. Nevertheless, you managed to free yourself. How?”

For a moment, she wished to push him on that, to insist that he tell her how he would know, but she decided against it.

“It attempted to take my heart by knowing me. It was doing the reverse that allowed me to defeat it,” she said. Again, that intent interest returned to his face. “To know the root of envy, to understand it, is a way to rid yourself of it, is it not?”

There was something about the way he looked at her when she said that which made her heart seem to skip a beat. The way his lips parted in surprise, perhaps. It was a far cry from the way he had looked at her when they argued some weeks before.

“ _What?_ ” she asked him, for he had not spoken and the silence had stretched a hair too long.

“That is astounding,” he said, and he sounded so very intrigued by her words. “You did not, in fact, destroy this being, but by understanding it you defeated it. Not many would have reacted in such a manner.”

Lavellan gave a small smile; it seemed, almost, as though he was trying to flatter her. She looked away from him, towards the window, that smile still on her lips. “I was not entirely without aid,” she said, and from the corner of her eye she saw him give a small start. “Tell me, what other sorts of spirits are there, that might come to the assistance of someone in need?”

“There are a number, though they are elusive at best,” he said, and there was a cautious note to his voice now. “Why do you ask?”

Lavellan stepped towards the window, looking out at the white expanse of snow.

“There was a boy,” she said softly. “In the snow, and then again when I dreamed. He...helped.”

 


	13. In which Lavellan encounters a man with abysmal manners and a taste for grandios entrances

It was upon the coldest, darkest, most unpleasant day of winter that Lady Montilyet held another party.

The invitation had arrived during her recovery, but Lavellan had put off sending a reply for several days. It had, of course, been an incredibly elegant invitation, written in a steady, fluid script that said _You are cordially invited to Lady Montilyet’s First Day Celebration_.

The name, of course, was not the dalish name for the day, but Lavellan knew well the importance of First Day. The dawning of the new year, the celebration that from then the days would begin to grow longer. The assurance that neighbors and loved ones had not frozen to death in the cold of winter.

It would be her the first she had spent without her clan and that, more than anything else, kept her from accepting the invitation immediately. It was a childish response, perhaps, but it took her some time to come to terms with the fact that she would not spend this First Day with those she considered family.

Still, there was nothing to be done for that, and so several days later she sent a reply to say that, yes, she would most certainly be in attendance.

As she still remained in Nightingale Hall, she prepared for Lady Montilyet’s party alongside both Leliana and Cassandra. As was her tendency when it came to clothing, Cassandra wore a jacket in a rich plum color, a vest of pink peeking out from beneath it. Leliana, in stark contrast to Cassandra, wore a gown in a rich red and the most impractical shoes that Lavellan had ever seen. They seemed far too delicate for the weather, but Leliana had insisted she would wear them.

Leliana was, as well, far more enthused about preparing for the party.

“Simply everyone who is anyone in Haven will be there,” she said as she helped Lavellan to pin her hair into an elegant twist at the back of her head. “Josephine has always thrown the best of parties, and this one is certain to put the last one you attended to shame.”

Watching Leliana put up her hair in the mirror, Lavellan thought that she looked so very different from who she had been when she left Wycome. Oh, it was her in the mirror, there was no question of that, but to see herself dressed so finely was still a strange thing to her.

“Who constitutes everyone who is anyone?” Lavellan inquired, for she did wish to have so idea of who would be at the party, if only to prepare herself for any potential unpleasantness.

“Well,” Leliana said as she slipped yet another pin into Lavellan’s hair. “Josie will be there, though that should be obvious. Lady Giselle will be in attendance. I have it on good authority that Josephine has invited your Captain, as well as your dear Mr. Aclassi. Mr. Tethras has been invited, much to Cassandra’s chagrin. And, of course, Commander Rutherford will be there.”

“Oh,” said Lavellan, and though she did not say it, she wondered at who else would be there. Surely not Mr. Solas, for Mr. Tethras had mentioned that he did not often attend such social gatherings. But he _had_ been to Lady Montilyet’s party previously, which made her wonder.“Do you know if Miss Harding has been invited?”

There was a small smile which formed upon Leliana’s lips. “Oh! Yes, Miss Harding has been invited. She is a friend of yours, is she not?”

“Yes, she is. I _had_ thought she would be invited, seeing as she was at Lady Montilyet’s last gathering.”

“As I said, anyone who is _anyone_ will be there.” Leliana secured a final piece of her hair and stepped back. “And you, my dear, are ready to attend as well.”

Lavellan did not have many dresses which she had brought with her to Nightingale Hall, but she had brought the one of deep green which she had purchased in Val Royeaux. It was festive enough, she supposed, and it was far richer than anything she had worn prior to coming to Skyhold Manor. With her hair done up in such an elegant fashion and a delicate necklace around her throat, she felt quite pretty indeed.

They set out for Lady Montilyet’s estate not long after, and though there was quite a bit of fresh snow upon the ground they did not encounter too much trouble on their journey. Indeed, it was not a far journey at all, for Lady Montilyet’s estate was settled only a short distance from Nightingale Hall.

Upon entering the house, Lavellan found that Lady Montilyet had, as Leliana said, gone all out. While the estate had been elegantly decorated at her last gathering, it was now done in a way quite appropriate to the season. It looked as though someone had gone out into the forest and brought back a great deal of foliage - there were wreaths and decorations of pine and fir boughs, and sprigs of holly accented everything. There were candles and ribbons of gold, everything expertly placed to create a setting that was quite breathtaking.

“Oh,” she said softly, and beside her Leliana beamed.

“Josie has quite outdone herself this time. She does have quite the eye for beautiful things.”

“It is quite lovely,” Lavellan said, and it was. She had never seen First Day decorations quite like these, not when she had lived so far north where evergreens were few and far between, and the ribbons they hung from their Aravels were certainly not golden.

“Do you _see_ Josie?” Leliana asked Cassandra, who was the tallest of the three. She pressed her lips together and looked out over the room - there were already many people there, mingling and laughing, some already dancing.

“I barely need to look; she’s already spotted us,” she said, and a moment later Lady Montilyet cut through the crowd.

“Lady Cassandra!” she said, a brilliant smile upon her face. She wore a gown of a rich, embroidered gold accented in red; her hair was braided elaborately and piled high atop her head. “I had hoped that you would come! And vLady Lavellan, Leliana, it is so good to see you!” She greeted each of them warmly, though Leliana she swept into a friendly hug.

“Josie, you’ve outdone yourself this year,” Leliana said. Lady Montilyet gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all! We have so _many_ new arrivals this year, I thought it only right that I spare no expense in throwing a party. A welcome, of sorts, for everyone who has come to Haven this last year. I am afraid that I couldn’t acquire any of those small cakes from Val Royeaux; we are quite cut off from Orlais with all of this snow, far more so than we are cut off from Ferelden.”

“It will be a fine party even without little cakes, Josie,” said Leliana, in the sort of long suffering way of one who knew a friend well and had likely anticipated this exact worry. “I’m certain we’ll be able to get them for your Wintersend party with no problem. And once they finish the rail, it will be little trouble to get to Val Royeaux regardless of how much snowfall we get.”

Though she did not say it, Lavellan was still quite glad for the great amount of snow that had fallen in Haven and the lands around it. The closing of the mountain passes had been very timely, and if Dorian and Felix were to be believed, had cut her off from those who wanted to confront her in no civil manner.

“I would stay and speak longer, but I did promise that I would speak with Marquis DuRellion. Lady Cassandra, I hate to impose upon you, but would you care to accompany me?”

For a moment, it looked as though Cassandra might refuse, but then something softened infinitesimally in her face and she held her arm out to Lady Montilyet. “Of course, Lady Josephine. I have words to say to the Comte as well.”

“Shall we make the rounds as well, Lady Lavellan?” Leliana said, and Lavellan gladly agreed. It was far easier to feel social around people she did not know when Leliana stood at her arm. Things she had noticed about Leliana before, or guessed, seemed more apparent now - she had a fascinating way of leading a conversation to uncover things that she wished to know more of. After they had spoken to several of those at the party, Lavellan was more certain than ever that Leliana had purposefully asked her questions with incorrect information spoken as certainties, all so that Lavellan would correct her and, in doing so, reveal information which she wanted.

It was incredibly clever.

As they moved around the room, Lavellan kept an eye out for those that she knew. She saw Bull almost immediately, for his great height made him hard to miss. She saw Miss Harding a little later, speaking very animatedly to a man who was only slightly taller than she. Mr. Tethras she caught sight of through the throng of people as they stopped to speak with Lady Giselle; for a curious moment, she caught herself looking past him to see if Mr. Solas stood nearby. He did not, and she felt a small pang of disappointment that she did not care to examine more closely.

“My apologies, Lady Lavellan. I did not mean to bore you with our conversation,” Lady Giselle said, and Lavellan was abruptly drawn from her thoughts and back to the conversation.

“Oh, no, I must apologize as well,” she said quickly, for she had not heard any of the preceding discussion. “I am simply quite struck by this party which Lady Montilyet has thrown; I have never been to a First Day quite like this. In fact, if you do not mind, I might excuse myself to better examine those canapes on that table over there.”

It was not too hard to disentangle herself from the conversation; Lady Giselle seemed quite content to speak with Leliana, and so Lavellan wandered over to the far side of the room.

Now Lady Montilyet’s estate was a good part more elegant than either Nightingale Hall or even Skyhold, though it was somewhat smaller than both. The main hall was where the primary festivities of the party were held, but there were smaller rooms that branched off suitable for talking or drinking or eating - or all three. Lavellan found her way to where a table of refreshments had been set up, though she did not, at first, partake of any of them. It still felt incredibly strange to be in such a rich seeming place with such food simply placed out for guests to eat. It seemed quite excessive, and she felt a small measure of apprehension at what she could or could not take.

She was contemplating a drink, for that seemed both appropriate to a party as well as something that would calm her nerves, when someone came through the open door closest to her.

“Lady Lavellan!” It was Felix, looking respendant in his gold trimmed waistcoat. “It is good to see that you are up and about. I had heard you had fallen ill.”

“Lord Felix!” Her smile was almost equal his own; in fact, each of them had a great smile upon their face. His turned into one almost sheepish in quality.

“Please, just Felix. Being called lord anything is something that has always sat unwell with me.”

Lavellan gave a small laugh. “Then _you_ must call me Lavellan. None of this _lady_ nonsense.”

His eyebrows rose; he seemed quite taken aback by this. “Is that entirely proper? During my time at the University of Orlais, it seemed quite _im_ proper to address a lady without a title.”

She shook her head slightly, still smiling. “If I may not call you _lord_ than _you_ may not call me _lady._ Besides, if someone is to complain, we can always say it is some oddity of the north.”

It was Felix’s turn to laugh. “I suppose we can! Still, I am unused to this southern weather.”

“It’s truly abominable, isn’t?”

“Dreadful,” Felix agreed. He had, Lavellan thought, a very kind smile. “Dorian has been positively miserable since we arrived here. I heard him once described as something of a hothouse orchid, and I must say that it is a _very_ apt description of him. This weather simply doesn’t suit him.”

“And it suits you?” Lavellan couldn’t help but ask.

“Oh, not at all. I simply don’t complain about it to the extent that Dorian does.”

“Well,” Lavellan said, deciding to abandon the canapes and refreshments entirely for the moment and moving so that both of them stood out of the way of the other party guests, “I am _very_ glad to see that you have been invited. I’m certainly not an expert on who should be invited to these sort of events, and I was not certain who would make Lady Montilyet’s guest list. I do hope that this is at least a little bit of enjoyment to offset our terrible weather.”

“It is,” said Felix. He looked out over the festivities with that kind smile still on his face. “It is much greater than the parties back home, I must say. The name _Alexius_ does not mean much hear, and so I am spared all the unpleasantness that would usually come in the wake of that.”

It was something of an admission, though to what Lavellan could not guess. She did not know a great deal of the noble families of the Tevinter Empire, that was true. And the name _Alexius_ meant nothing save that it was the name of Felix’s family. Still, Tevinter was not generally well regarded in the countries south of its border, and she had heard only the most terrible of stories about their politics and society.

Terrible stories or not, she found that she quite liked Felix. He, himself, had done nothing to cause her distress.

“I am glad that it is a good party for you,” she said quite warmly. “I do feel some responsibility for why you and Dorian are trapped in Haven for the winter, seeing as you both rushed so quickly here to warn me of Lord Corypheus.”

“I hardly blame you for that, and as much as Dorian might complain about the weather, he does not either. It was of our own volition that we followed you to Haven; if there is any responsibility to be had, it is for us to take.”

“Well,” she said, feeling somehow lighter to have heard this, “I am very glad that you are both here. It does make the winter much less dreadful."

It was then that the musicians struck up a lively song that Lavellan was somewhat certain she knew the steps to; it seemed that Felix had the same thought as her, for a moment after the music began he extended his hand towards her.

“Would you care for a dance, Lady Lavellan?” he said with a smile, _lady_ a word light on his tongue, said with more formality than was necessary. Lavellan laughed, and she set her hand in his.

“Of course, my Lord Felix,” she replied, and he swept her out into the lines that had formed upon the dance floor.

Now a dance, particularly those danced in opposing lines, was not always the most opportune place to speak, but there were enough moments where two partners could dance at each other’s side so as to continue on a conversation. As they both bowed to each other from their placement in opposing lines and took the first steps forward into the dance, they continued to speak as though they had not left their previous position of simply watching the festivities.

“Now, I have a good idea of what it is that Dorian studies,” she said as they passed shoulder to shoulder. “But what is it that _you_ study? You do not seem to have the same fascination with theoretical magic as he does.”

They passed by one another, took their turn with their adjacent partner, and the steps of the dance brought them back together once more before he could answer.

“I do not,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into the next steps. “I have very little talent for things of a magical nature. However, mathematics? _That_ is where my interests lie.”

“ _Mathematics?_ ” She was, somehow, surprised, but found this delightful.

“Yes. Mathematics, physics, the study of the natural world. It is in the juxtaposition of the mundane and the magical that I truly fascinated by. Have you ever wondered at how magic seems to warp the very fabric of reality? And yet,” he said as he spun her through a turn, “we have not fully defined _what_ those rules of reality are.”

“And you seek to define those rules? With...mathematics?”

The dance brought them apart once more; she turned with the partner at her side, hooking her arm through theirs. The tempo of the music was quick and lively; she bounced upon her toes as she went through the steps.

Felix caught her and spun her as the dance brought them together once more. “Mathematics are a certainty,” he said, his hand at her waist. “Two plus two will always equal four, even when you attempt to distort the world with magic. And while my work is not explicitly about the intersect of magic and mathematics, by applying the latter to the former, one can understand gaps in our knowledge that we barely realized existed.”

Lavellan looked at Felix as though he were something quite astounding. This was something she had not considered, for she was no mathematician and her education was not as extensive as his. “That is truly fascinating,” she said as the dance came to an end and they each gave their respective bows to one another.

“I should hope so. It seems to have drawn some attention among the academic community, though most in Tevinter will not -” He was quite interrupted by a sudden, abrupt bout of coughing. It seemed to come upon him quickly; he turned to the side, away from her, and brought his arm up swiftly to cover his mouth. “Apologies,” he said when the coughing had subsided. “I have been somewhat under the weather as of late. I should sit out the next few dances; perhaps that will alleviate it somewhat.”

“That’s quite all right with me,” Lavellan said as Felix set a hand briefly to his chest, clearing his throat as though a cough still lingered there. “I don’t care to dance _every_ dance. Come, let us move away from the dance floor; I would prefer _not_ to accidentally be run into by someone dancing!”

Now, she could have continued to speak with him on matters of all sorts for some time, but as soon as they returned to the periphery of the floor they were waylaid by none other than Lord Dorian.

“Felix!” he said loudly, striding quickly towards them. He was clad in clothing of red and cream and looked extraordinarily handsome. Lavellan saw that he carried a drink in each hand. “And my dear Lady Lavellan! I have been looking everywhere for both of you. And here you are, looking entirely too flushed, and without even a drink in hand!”

“We have been dancing, Dorian,” Felix said mildly, and Dorian passed him one of the two glasses. “I take it that you have not?”

“ _I_ have been engaging in furious discussion with that horned friend of yours, Lady Lavellan.” He passed the other drink to her. “Here, this is for you. A good, stiff drink. It has some sort of spice in it; a southern thing, or so I am told. I would not be surprised if someone had ground up some of these green decorations and put them into it.”

“They’re mulling spices, Dorian,” Felix said, and Lavellan gave a small laugh as she took a sip. “It is a southern thing.”

“Am I to assume when you said you were speaking to my horned friend, you mean with Bull?” she asked Dorian. He made the most curious face, several emotions flittering across it in quick succession.

“Yes, yes, the so-called Iron Bull. I dare say, he has better opinions on Tevinter than I would have expected.” His expression settled upon one that was somewhat sour.

“Bull is remarkably even tempered,” she said, and she saw Dorian glanced to the side, to where Bull was laughing rather uproariously at something Krem had said. “He’s a very honorable man. I have met few better.”

“Hmmph.” Dorian gazed at him a moment longer, than seemed to give himself a small shake. “Well. I have to say, southern parties are not all that different from the ones back home. Lots of dancing, lots of drink, and far too many people set to embarrass themselves for a small chance to climb the social ladder.”

“Have you been embarrassing yourself, Dorian?” Felix asked. He had not, Lavellan noticed, touched his wine.

“Now, Felix, you know that I _never_ embarrass myself at things such as these. It is everyone else that is just so dreadfully tiresome as to think myself obscene.” He said it with an expression that seemed tailored to make it all sound so much more scandalous than it was.

“Then it is a good thing that I have found no one I consider dreadfully tiresome here,” Felix replied. It was all very good natured, a conversation that spoke of a long, shared history of friendship.

Lavellan sipped at her mulled wine - Dorian had been correct in that it was very well seasoned, with a number of flavors that spoke of the evergreens that were so liberally placed around the room - and as she listened her gaze once more swept over the rest of the party. She saw that Cassandra and Mr. Tethras were engaged in what appeared to be a rather furious discussion, and beyond them Commander Rutherford was speaking in a far calmer manner to Lady Montilyet. Bull and Krem, it seemed, were still entertaining, likely with stories of their exploits. Miss Harding, she noticed, stood with them, and though her back was to Lavellan, she thought her to be laughing.

“If you would excuse me,” she said to her two gentleman companions when she noticed this. “I have noticed several friends I have not yet spoken to this night.”

“Of course. It certainly wouldn’t do to monopolize _all_ of your time, even if your present company is by far the most charming in the room,” said Dorian, and he winked at her in such a scandalous manner that she could not help but laugh.

It was fairly easy to flitter between conversations and companions at such a party; Lavellan made her way across the room easily, drink in hand, though she did have to spin around a set of dancers who were far too exuberant so as to keep from spilling wine all over.

So intent was she on crossing the room that she nearly walked directly into him. As it was, she just barely missed him; his shoulder grazed hers as they spun around one another, and she rocked back upon her toes to keep from spilling her drink.

“Mr. Solas!” She was quite surprised by his appearance, and though she would not admit it, she had been searching for him all night. Their last conversations had much softened her opinion on him, and she found that, provided they kept the topic to the more intellectual of subjects, he was quite amiable. “I had not thought to see you at such a party!”

The look he gave her was one of amusement. “And why should I not attend? I was invited, after all.”

“It is not that you _should_ not attend, simply that it is unexpected,” she said, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch into the smallest of smiles. “Tell me truly, did Mr. Tethras convince you to attend?”

“He did not have to convince me, though I believe he was surprised that I had already decided on coming.” He looked just as ragged as ever, in that suit of his which was a number of years out of fashion. A simple suit

That was something she found surprising as well, though she did not voice this. She gently readjusted her hold upon her glass of wine, taking a delicate sip. By now, the taste of the spice within the wine seemed less sharp upon her tongue and, indeed, she had drunk enough that she felt nicely warm.

“I did want to thank you,” she said, and saw his eyebrows rise in surprise. “Oh, come now, you must have some inkling as to why! Our last conversation set my mind at ease about this entire, ah, spirit business. Or, I suppose, having someone to speak of about such things did much to shed some light upon my experience.”

Mr. Solas clasped his hands behind his back; there was, she thought, a somewhat curious look to his expression.

“It is not often that such things are encountered with the world as it is,” he said. “Spirits were once commonplace, but that was at a time when our magic was far stronger as well. Things are much diminished from what they were.”

“Hmm.” She sipped her wine. It was so curious, the way he spoke. It was as though he had absolute assurance in the truth of what he said. In this case, she found it quite intriguing, though had she not had her experience with the envy demon and Cole, she might have thought him quite mad. “That is the question I have, such as it is. If these things are not common, why now? And why did _I_ see what I saw?”

“That you question such things…” he said, but his voice trailed off as though he was contemplating something that she could not understand. “I cannot answer such things. If you were to consider the origin of all these events, perhaps you could discover what has brought you to the attention of such beings.”

Lavellan tapped a finger thoughtfully against the side of the wineglass. “Skyhold,” she said after only a moment, quite confident in her answer. “None of this occurred prior to me arriving at Skyhold.”

“Then your course is clear,” he said, shifting his stance ever so slightly. He did not look at her, instead looking out over the rest of the party. Lavellan looked out as well; she saw, to her delight, that Miss Harding and Krem were dancing. Miss Harding had a somewhat ungainly gait to her steps, but when the movements of the dance turned Krem towards her, Lavellan could see that he very much did not mind. She wondered if he would have noticed, had she trod upon his foot.

She sipped at her wine as the music wound down. She felt very warm and delightfully loose, as wine would often do, and she thought that she was in very fine spirits. Mr. Solas had, quite thankfully, not infuriated her at all in their brief conversation; if anything, she found herself very taken with this side of him.

If only he extended the same care and respect he applied to his conversation on esoteric knowledge to all other conversation topics, she thought.

Now, Lavellan felt quite content and rather amiable herself, and so when the music shifted into a new tune, one that beat in threes rather than the four steps of the previous dances, she felt that she ought to be at least the slightest bit daring.

“Mr. Solas,” she said, setting her glass of wine upon the table beside her, “do you dance?”

His brow rose once more in that look that seemed to be mild surprise. “It is not something I have done in quite some time, but yes. I do dance.” His head was tilted just slightly to the side, as though awaiting what she said next.

“If I were to ask you to dance, Mr. Solas, would there be the slightest of chances that you would say yes?”

There was, once more, a strong, fleeting look of confusion that crossed his face. Surprise, perhaps, as his eyes widened just the slightest and his head tipped upwards.

“I cannot say that it would be the wisest course of action, but I believe there is a chance that I would say yes.”

“A _chance?_ ” Though his choice of words - _the wisest course of action?_ \- seemed exceedingly odd to her, she did not wish to follow up upon them. “A chance is better than none at all. Now, I must warn you that I have only once danced this particular dance, and it is likely that I will trod upon your feet, but, Mr. Solas - would you care to dance with me?”

She held out her hand to him, and the expression she gave him was quite expectant. For one long moment, he stared at her hand as though uncertain what to do with it. And then, almost slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and took her hand. Even then, there was another moment where he seemed to pull back; his fingers caught with hers, but his hand jerked slightly as though he meant to withdraw it. But he did not; instead, he turned his hand so that he caught hers in a dancer’s grip, and he drew her out upon the dance floor.

It was a very different dance to what she had danced with Felix. As she had said, she was not entirely skilled at this dance. It was, all things considered, a popular dance which was still sometimes scandalous. When she had danced it before, without music, she had been barefoot , dancing in the company of her clan, learning what she might need to be part of southern society.

He held her right hand in his own, the glove he wore keeping their skin from touching, and his left hand settled upon the curve of her waist. There was at first the same hesitancy to his touch, and her own left hand fluttered above his shoulder before she allowed it to rest upon the upper portion of his arm.

“I am afraid I am very little good at this dance,” she said, and he smiled.

“Neither am I,” he told her, which was quickly proven to be a lie.

Here was something which Lavellan had only known in theory: to dance with a partner who did not know the steps, when they lead, would lead to disaster. But a lead who knew each step could make even a clumsy follow feel as though they could dance.

It was not as though she did not stumble over steps, for she did. It took her a moment to catch upon the tempo of the music, to follow the movement of the violin and the cello. But Mr. Solas was, quite unexpectedly, an excellent dancer. He moved her through the music and she found that he was quite easy to follow, her hand upon his arm, his upon her waist. He waltzed her around the room, and it was only rarely that she found her footing unsteady.

She had thought that, like so many other dances, they would speak as they danced, but that was not the case. She was acutely aware of how close brought them, his fingers were splayed over the fabric of her dress, only inches between them. She could swear that even through layers of silk and through the boning of her corset, she could still feel the heat from the press of his palm.

This close, she could see the imperfections upon his face, the discoloration of freckles upon his skin, the fine lines at the corner of his eyes that she had never noticed before, the scar above his brow. She caught his eye and saw this close how very grey they were.

And here is what happened: she caught his eye, or he caught hers, and she heard him give the smallest intake of breath. His hand, where it lay upon her waist, trembled. Before she could think on these things, his hand pressed just the slightest bit harder as he raised her other arm; he spun her, the room flashing by all green and gold and bright. He caught her firmly as she completed the spin; she did not stumble, did not trip, but she had lost her breath somewhere along the way.

Perhaps she had imagined the way his eyes had widened, or how he had drawn in a breath; perhaps his hand had not trembled where he touched her. His face seemed so impassive now, even as they continued to dance. They passed by Cassandra and Lady Montilyet, who seemed to be quite elegant dancers themselves, and Mr. Solas turned them both to keep from colliding with them. The turn was too fast for her and she stepped one too many times in between the beats of the music. It put them off balance, but once more he held her steadily, and it was his own skill at dancing which allowed her to correct her footwork.

She had truly not expected dancing with him to be quite like _this_.

All too soon and yet not soon enough, the song came to its conclusion. Their dance ended without ceremony - he did not draw her into a dip, there was no elegant way by which they stopped. Indeed, as the music died, it was almost as though they missed it entirely. Their steps slowed until they no longer moved, but Mr. Solas did not release her hand, nor did his right hand move from its place at her waist.

She was breathless from the dance, and it seemed that her heart raced within her chest almost giddily; she looked up at him, her smile a touch too sly.

“You are a liar, Mr. Solas,” she said, and she him give an almost imperceptible start. But she did not let the accusation sting overly long. “You said that you were not good at this dance, and that was most _certainly_ a lie.”

“Ah,”he said with a smile, but there was, as she so often noticed with him, a strange quality to the expression that she could not place, “so I am.”

For an instant, he looked almost...sad. She wondered at that as she slowly untangled her hand from his.

“Thank you, Mr. Solas, for an excellent dance,” she said, and she smiled again, hoping that it would erase whatever temporary sadness had crossed his face. “Perhaps we shall have to do that again some day.”

His throat worked as he seemed to swallow a word, or possibly attempt to say something, but it was at that moment that everything shifted quite peculiarly.

“He’s here,” said a voice whispered into her ear. It was, for a moment, as though the world around her had gone soft and quiet; the laughter and music of the party died to no more than a dull murmur. It felt like cotton had been stuffed into her ears, blocking all save for the one voice. “He’s coming.”

She turned - the gold of the ribbons shone likes stars around her. She felt Mr. Solas’s hand on her waist, his fingertips skimming the fabric as she turned away from him. There was no one beside her, but she saw the flash of a boy tucked just beyond one of the guests. A boy with hollow eyes and a face as though he was already dead.

“Cole?” she said, her voice distant. The boy blinked.

“He waited until the snow stopped; the passes were too full of ice, blinding white that chilled even him. But he is impatient, confident, ready for confrontation. You stole, steal, are stealing - he wishes for what you have, because he thinks it should be his. You need to be ready.”

The words washed over her, nonsensical, lyrical, and she could not quite parse their meaning.

“The envy demon? But it is gone,” she said, for she remembered how the demon desire for everything that she was. The boy flickered in the edge of her vision, the light from the candles turning him to gold.

“No,” he said, very softly. “Not Envy.”

The world came back into focus so quickly that she felt staggered, as though she had tripped through the step of a dance and caught herself. She felt a hand upon her arm; Mr. Solas was still beside her, a frown marring his brow, turning the small scar upon his skin more prominent.

“What is wrong?” he said, and Lavellan opened her mouth to speak. Beyond them, behind them, the doors to Lady Montilyet’s estate clattered open; even so far into the room as they were, she felt the chill draft from the wind outside steal in, cold upon her skin.

“Where,” said a voice, deep and loud, a voice that brought silence over the party, “is the one who calls themselves _Skyhold_?”

She knew, in that instant, who it was that stood behind her. She turned, slowly, and looked up, and there he stood. She was not certain what she had expected, had only had the vaguest of images of what he might have looked like when Dorian had told her his name.

He was tall, a great man who towered over all others. Taller even than Bull, though he had a stretched look to him, as though someone had taken an ordinary man and pulled his body until his bones had lengthened. His face seemed as if cut from stone, each angle and plane rough and deliberate.

There was something utterly terrifying about him, and she could not place what it was.

Still, she could not avoid this, not now. Through the great hush that had fallen over the hall, many heads turned to look at her. She lifted her chin to meet his gaze; neither of them flinched.

“I am the Lady of Skyhold,” she said, and there was a part of her which was quite surprised that her voice did not waver. “And who are _you?_ ”

“I am Lord Corypheus of the House of Dumat,” he said in that great, deep voice. “And I have come to claim what is mine.”

There was a figure behind each of his shoulders; one woman, one man, but she was focused upon Lord Corypheus. He advanced upon her, seeming to grow larger and larger with each step, until he loomed before her.

“Usurper,” he said, coming to a stop before her. Every bit of herself told Lavellan to step back, but she did not. “You meddle in affairs that you cannot understand, and claim an inheritance that is not yours to take.”

In her periphery, she could see people moving; Commander Rutherford and Cassandra pushed forward through those around them who had moved to make way during all the commotion.

“And whose is it to claim?” she said, not removing her gaze from him. She had to tip her head back quite a bit to meet his eye. “If you have come to dispute matters of inheritance, this is not the place to do so.”

“I have come for what is mine,” he said, and he took her hand then, in a mockery of a greeting. Her left hand, and at first she was uncertain of what his intent was. She quickly realized that it was the ring she wore that his attention had fallen upon.

“You will remove your hand from me this instant,” she said, and she saw a thunderous expression grow upon his face, as though he did not care for or was not used to another telling him what he must do. She moved to withdraw her hand from his, but his long fingers caught at the ring, pulled sharply. Lavellan could not help but gasp at the small shock of pain that ran through her hand.

The ring would not move, as it had not moved since she had first found it there upon her hand. In the light of the candles, it seemed to glitter and gleam, a flash of green that seemed too bright for a moment. Lord Corypheus attempted to remove it from her finger, but he could not.

“You will unhand me _now_ ,” she said, and she jerked her hand from his. She curled her fingers and pressed her hand against her chest, where her heart beat rapidly, her breath catching. Who did this man think that he was, to arrive in such an abrupt manner, to make such demands, to attempt to take her ring from her finger?

“You will _not_ cause such a disruption within _my house_ ,” she heard someone say, and she looked to the side to see Lady Montilyet standing beside her, Cassandra at her shoulder. Commander Rutherford was there as well; he moved before Lavellan, putting himself before her and Lord Corypheus. “If you have a legal matter to discuss, then we shall discuss that in the proper place. As it were, you are an uninvited guest in my house, and as such you will treat all of my guests with respect or you shall be removed from the premise.”

She had never heard such a deadly note within Lady Montilyet’s voice. Lord Corypheus looked to her, then back to Lavellan. There was an expression of shock upon his face, as though he had not anticipated that his actions would cause such a reaction.

“My lord,” said one of his two companions, a pale woman clad all in black, her hair bound into spiraling braids at the back of her head. “Perhaps it would be wise to retire for now.”

“This was ill advised,” said the other, a greasy looking man with too-pale face and red rimmed eyes. He spoke almost as though to himself, but Lord Corypheus looked to him sharply.

“This will not be the last you hear of this,” he said, his fury once more turned upon Lavellan. “I _will_ have what is mine.”

He turned; as quickly as he had entered the house, he left. His two companions fell into step behind him, the woman sparing a backwards glance towards where Lavellan stood.

“The nerve of that man!” Lady Montilyet was quite visibly upset. “To think that he could burst in here and declare such things! Utterly disgraceful!” She took several steps towards his retreating back, then thought the better of it, shook herself, and turned back to Lavellan. “Lady Lavellan, are you well? He did no harm to you?”

“I am...all right,” she said, though her hand ached where he had tried to remove the ring and she felt as though there was a dull ringing in her ears. She felt weak, strange, the after effects of the terror of confrontation as they were swept away. “I am well.”

The words rang hollow even as she said them. She gazed after Lord Corypheus as he walked away, and she felt, quite strongly, that she had seen him somewhere before. And that thought terrified as much as what had come before it, for she had no memory of ever meeting him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up with a slight soundtrack! Mostly because I was just listening to [The Elder One Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uLN0dy22sVw) on repeat at the end, but also! Thanks to my lovely friend Ramblingredrose, you can also imagine Corypheus' entrance in this as Rasputin's entrance in Anastasia, so the [Prologue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUfMHPiDaQo) song from Anastasia is basically the theme for this chapter, even if that's the wrong century entirely.


	14. In which there is a ghost

With the arrival of Lord Corypheus and his proclamations at Lady Montilyet’s party, all of Haven was in an uproar. It was the most exciting thing which had happened within the town since Lavellan had come to Skyhold, and it was taken in a decidedly worse light.

That he had grabbed her so roughly at the party was something which was on everyone’s lips; while she was not, perhaps, wholly loved by those within Haven, she was not hated, and she was held in much higher regard than this newcomer who had spoken so rudely. The distaste for him was nearly palpable, and Lavellan found herself with a quiet, intense support which she had never before experienced.

Lord Corypheus had, in his one single instance, brought the entire ire of Haven down upon him, and had shown himself to have all the pomposity of the most cliche of Tevinter villains.

Still, despite the support, Lady Lavellan said her goodbyes to her friends at Nightingale Hall and returned to Skyhold not long after the disastrous party.

“It is better I not bring this upon you,” she said when Cassandra insisted that it would be no trouble to them if she stayed. “You have all been so kind to me, and now that _this_ has occurred, it is - well, my problem, and if something is to happen then I would prefer none who I care for are brought down with me. Besides, the snow has lessened and it should not be so much trouble to return home.”

Cassandra was not fully convinced, and Leliana insisted that she send a missive if she needed _anything_. That, along with Josephine’s assertions that she would look into the legality of Lord Corypheus’ claims, left Lavellan feeling much more light hearted than she had previously.

That, and Bull had decided to move in to Skyhold.

“You’ve got a pompous, overblown Tevinter noble out for your blood? You’re going to need a bodyguard, and until all this snow melt, the Chargers aren’t leaving Haven. Might as well have me up at Skyhold where I can do some good.”

Lavellan could not be brought to care about propriety after that.

It was strange, to be back in Skyhold after so long, but she did notice one thing that had changed - the entire place felt lighter, brighter, as though some strange, oppressive force had been lifted from it. The Envy demon was gone, then, and it showed in every bit of Skyhold, from a subtle brightening of the lights to how the shadows did not seem so deep even in the darkest of corners.

Both Bull and Krem stayed in Skyhold for the first nights after Lord Corypheus’ arrival. It was comforting, and made her feel far more secure than she otherwise would have.

The second day after Lord Corypheus’ dramatic arrival at the First Day party, Lady Lavellan met with Lady Montilyet.

In the wake of Lord Corypheus’ departure, Lady Montilyet had impressed upon Lavellan the importance of dealing with this swiftly. While she had little doubt that this noble from Tevinter could take Skyhold from her, given that the documents proclaiming her inheritance of the manor and the lands around it had already been verified prior to her arrival and again after she had come to haven, it was crucial that they handle everything “civilly and legally,” as Lady Montilyet had said.

Now Lady Montilyet, despite currently residing in Haven, was originally from Antiva. She had an extensive education, having studied law in Orlais, and she was quite respected in matters of state. When Lavellan arrived in her offices in the center of Haven, it was apparent that she had already begun work on the problem of Lord Corypheus.

“Lady Lavellan,” she said, looking up from where she sat at a desk positively covered in paper. “I am very glad that you are here. We have _quite_ a lot of work to do today. Please, have a seat.”

There was an elegant wood chair that stood before Lady Montilyet’s desk; Lavellan settled herself down, folding her hands upon her lap.

“How are you faring?” Lady Montilyet asked her before she could say anything more. Lady Lavellan considered this for a moment. Her hand was much abused, and she wore her gloves to hide both bruising and the ring that could not be removed from her finger.

“I am doing well,” she said, and though Lady Montilyet looked dubious at this answer, she did not remark upon it. “Perhaps we should attend to business?”

“Of course, of course.” She shuffled papers around, pulling several forth. “I have been investigating this Lord Corypheus, though being that Haven is currently cut off from everywhere due to snowfall, I only have what information we already had. Which is...little.” Lady Montilyet gave a heavy sigh. “For now, all I can tell you is that he is a noble of the once great house of Dumat. In theory, he was one of the families of the Tevinter Empire who owned a portion of Thedas when the empire spanned almost the entirety of it. In practice, those land deeds have changed hands several times over since his family would have had any claim to them, and thus the simplest answer is to say that anything he might claim is false.”

“It cannot be as simple as that,” Lavellan said incredulously, though she had a sudden intense burst of hope within her chest that it _would_ be.

“Unfortunately, no.” She shuffled several more papers, delicately selecting one to bring forth and lay before her. “Tell me, Lady Lavellan, how much do you know of the history of the late Duchess Divine’s land holdings?”

“Not much,” Lavellan said truthfully. “I know that they include within them Skyhold, as well as the dalish lands, and they end at the edge of the Arbor wilds.”

“You are quite correct in that,” Lady Montilyet said. She pushed the paper towards her; it was a thick piece of vellum with a delicate rendering of southern Thedas. “As you can see, Duchess Divine held a great deal of land, more so than most other nobility of Orlais. The family of Divine has owned those lands for several centuries now, spanning back to when Andraste Divine was given the land after the Tevinter Empire withdrew to within their current borders.”

A furrow grew between Lavellan’s brows at that and she shook her head. “No,” she said, for while she did not know all the intricate details of what had occurred so many centuries ago, she knew at least _something_ or it. “ _This_ land,” and she tapped her finger upon the rendering of the Dales, “was given to the dalish.”

The look Lady Montilyet gave was almost pained. “I...yes. It was, but...legally, there is no record that it was ever officially ceded to them. We _do_ have legal documents which show the transfer of deed from Tevinter to Andraste Divine, but there is nothing to show that ownership ever passed from that family’s hands.”

Lavellan pursed her lips, her hands folding more tightly around one another in her lap. “I see.”

“That...is not what I believe Lord Corypheus is concerned with,” Lady Montilyet continued, almost hurriedly. “What we must concern ourselves with, in the context of this Lord Corypheus, is that there is legal documentation which shows the lands belong to the family Divine. His claim to Skyhold - if that is what he is after - is so ancient as to be laughable.”

“And you think this is what he means to prove?” Lavellan said, attempting to wrap her head around the legalities of this. She pursed her lips, frowning. “That he has the most legitimate claim to Skyhold?”

“I cannot know for certain, of course.” Lady Montilyet replaced the paper upon a stack to her left. “I simply suggest that we prepare for every eventuality.”

Lavellan nodded slightly. “That does make much sense to me, Lady Montilyet.”

“Please,” said Lady Montilyet with a smile. “Call me Josephine.”

***

Truly, all of this was the last thing which Lavellan had wanted to concern herself with when she had left Wycome to come south. The politics of shemlen had often proved in ill-favor to one of the dalish, and had she not had Lady Josephine to help her, Lavellan feared that she would flounder all too quickly in the legalities of the entire situation.

Still, it seemed that after his ill-considered entrance at Lady Josephine’s party, he was hesitant to make his next move. Presumably, he was still staying within Haven, for the snow in the passes was still quite high. He must have been truly confident - or perhaps truly poor at making decisions - to brave the mountain pass in the dead of winter.

But up in Skyhold, upon the hill that looked out over the valley where Haven was nestled, Lavellan was quite able to avoid him, if indeed he truly was still there.

And, proper or not, she was glad to have Bull and Krem staying with her. Skyhold was quite lonely, with only the fewest people there to make certain that it was run. Bull filled the halls with his boisterous laughter, and he was a sturdy, strong presence.

It was a week after the First Day party, and Lord Corypheus had still not been heard from. Lavellan sat before the fire in Skyhold Manor with Bull and Krem late into the evening, idly discussing some of the more amusing of the Charger’s exploits. It was quite warm before the fire, and she felt quite drowsy.

As her two dear friends continued to talk - slinging light, affectionate insults at one another as they were wont to do - Lavellan allowed her thoughts to drift. She had been avoiding thinking too deeply upon the events of First Day, for they were terribly confusing. Or, rather, she had avoided thinking of everything that occurred prior to Lord Corypheus’ appearance, for while he had been deeply unsettling to her, he was not overly perplexing.

Mr. Solas, on the other hand, _was._

She was entirely uncertain what to make of him, and that frustrated her. She could not deny that he seemed to have a most fascinating intellect, and she was quite intrigued by what he had to say when it came to the academic, the magical, or the historical. And yet she could not shake her discomfort over their argument, even though some time had passed. Even with an apology, it was impossible for her to completely disregard what he had said of her people, of her heritage.

Perhaps she would speak to him of it, hazard the danger of being terribly insulted once more. If she could somehow set her mind at ease in this regard, then she might care to dwell upon the way he had danced with her, and how her heart had drummed within her breast when they were close.

So lost was she in thought that she did not notice the slight flickering of the gas lamps. They dimmed once, then flared back to full brightness.

“You keeping an eye on the fuel in these things?” asked Krem, pulling Lavellan from her musings. She shook her head slightly, focusing upon him as he stood to examine one of the lamps. “Might have some sort of, I don’t know, problem with the whole system if they keep flickering like this.”

“The... _what?_ ” She frowned at him, not quite following. “I’m sorry, I was not listening.”

“You might want to have someone check on these,” Krem repeated, tapping the glass of the nearest lamp with his finger. “Don’t want something going wrong with the gas.”

As though to prove his words right, the lamps flickered once more, as though the gas that supplied them had cut out entirely, only to start again a moment later.

“Oh,” said Lavellan, sitting up quite straight in her chair. “Oh, _dear_. Are you _certain_ that it’s a problem with the gas?”

Her heart had suddenly begun to beat very rapidly within her chest.

“Seems the most likely reason.”

Bull was looking at her with something approaching concern. “You okay there, boss?” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “You’re kind of looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Haha,” she said, more than actually laughed. “It’s just that, you see, the fireplace dimmed at the exact moment that the lamps did. Also, did I ever tell you that I think this house might be haunted?”

“Don’t joke about stuff like that, boss,” said Bull, who seemed more alert, edging upon wary.

“Aw, afraid of a few ghost stories, chief? That’s -”

The room was, quite suddenly, plunged into darkness. The gas lamps lost their flame, and the fire upon the hearth went out as though doused in water. There was a shriek, followed by the shrill sound of wood screeching upon the floor. The whole room was so dark as to be black as pitch.

As quickly as the lights had gone out, they returned, revealing quite a scene indeed.

If it was the sort of thing that could considered a laughing matter, the picture they painted as the fireplace and the gas lamps flickered back to life would have been quite amusing. Lavellan clung to Bull’s shoulders where he had placed her, he himself held ready to attack _something_ \- or to go out through the window if need be - and Krem stood before them with a chair held up by it’s back, as though it would make an acceptable weapon.

As the fire cast light back into the room, they all stood frozen for a moment. Lavellan’s heart beat an over-quick rhythm in her chest.

“I think you’ve got ghosts, boss,” said the Bull, and the sound of a spoken voice was enough to finally break the stillness. Lavellan released her grip on him and slid down to the ground, landing unsteadily on her feet. Krem began to replace the chair on the ground, looking sheepish.

“I wasn’t trying to frighten you,” said a soft voice, and Krem nearly threw the chair across the room.

It was a good thing that Lavellan was quite quick when she had to be, for she was able to stop him before damage came to her new chair, or to the boy who spoke.

“Krem, stop! It’s all right!” She put out a hand, stilling her friend before he could release the chair. “You can put that down; there is no danger.”

The boy sat perched atop one of the other chair, still as she had last seen him. His thin limbs, overly large hat, and when he looked up she saw that his face was still gaunt, his eyes bulbous, the delicate skin beneath it seemingly permanently bruised.

“Okay, kid,” said Bull, and though he was still quite wary, he was no longer pulling himself up to look his most intimidating. “How’d you get in here?”

The boy’s eyes went wide; the look upon his face was so hopeful and terribly heartbreaking.

“You can see me?” he said, his head tipped up to look at Bull’s face, then turned to look to Krem. “You can all see me?”

“You’re sitting right there, kid. Of course we can see you.”

It was a relief to find that both Krem and Bull could see the boy as well; after her last encounters with Cole, Lavellan had not been certain if he was anything more than a phantom of a dream. Or, at the best, a kind equivalent to the envy demon, something strange and otherworldly.

But this boy sat upon the chair before the fire and he spoke to Bull and Krem in his soft, distant voice, and he was quite undeniably _there_.

She walked over to him then, for with all of the tricks that had occurred within this house and all of the magical oddities that had happened of late, she was still uncertain of many things.

“Cole,” she said softly, stepping before him and holding out her hands. He blinked at her owlishly, beneath his too-long hair and his too-large hat. “I am so glad to see you. I have so been meaning to thank you for all of your help.”

His lips pulled into the smallest smile, like he was not entirely certain how to form the expression, and he lifted his hands uncertainly.

“I wanted to help,” he said, and then Lavellan took his thin, fine-boned hands in her own. And he looked down, then back up, and he looked quite confused.

“You _are_ real _,”_ she said so very softly, and she smiled at him.

“Yes?” And there was something so heartbreaking in how he said that one word, for it sounded as though he did not know the answer was true.

***

And so it was that Skyhold Manor came to have a new inhabitant. Cole was, it appeared, there to stay. After his appearance before the fire, he did not melt back into obscurity and dream. Instead, he seemed to make himself quite at home, though sometimes he disappeared for long periods of time only to reappear in the most unexpected of places.

If she had not held his hands in her own, she would have wondered if he was a ghost. Even knowing that he was real and that others could see him, she could still not shake that thought. Not given everything she had seen of him.

He was not quite human, she thought, but he was not like the envy demon either.

Now, several days past Cole’s appearance in Skyhold, a letter came up from Haven. It was addressed simply to _Skyhold_ and written as though it had been dictated from one person to another.

 _Lord Corypheus of the House of Dumat requests your presence tomorrow for afternoon tea_ the letter read, and despite its short nature Lavellan had to reread it several times before it fully sank in.

“ _What?_ ” she said aloud after the third reading. She held it out from her, then turned it upside down, as though it would perhaps reveal something more of the writer’s intent. The only other thing included in the missive was a location, presumably where he was staying in Haven. “Surely he cannot be serious.”

She showed the letter to Bull sometime later, watching his one good eye widen in surprise.

“Well, it’s a trap,” he said without hesitation. “You going to go?”

Lavellan pursed her lips; she regarded the letter once more with irritation. She had very little desire to see this Lord Corypheus again, not after how he had treated her upon their first meeting. However, as he had set himself up to oppose her and she had little idea as to anything about him, she felt that she ought to at least gain a better understanding of him. Tea with a rude, overblown magister of Tevinter could not be the _worst_ thing.

“You know,” she said, carefully folding the letter and replacing it within its envelope, “I believe that I shall.”

 


	15. In which Corypheus hosts a tea party

It was the most unpleasant tea that Lavellan had ever attended. Though she had not attended many in her brief tenure as a lady of society, she felt comfortable making the assessment that it would forever remain one of the worst teas she would ever take with another person.

She had not walked into the situation entire alone, for that would have been most unwise of her. Captain Bull accompanied her, taking little to convince him that it would be for the best, and she had sent out a letter to Lady Josephine explaining the situation and asking if she would attend as well. She was very glad when she received a _yes_ from her within the day.

And so it was that Lavellan found herself sitting in the parlor of the inn with Captain Bull on her right and Lady Josephine on her left, with Lord Corypheus sitting across from her.

He was not alone; his two companions were there as well. The slender, pale woman was introduced as Miss Calpernia, and her greasy, dark haired counterpart was named as a Mr. Samson. Lavellan was uncertain what to make of them, for they spoke little throughout the afternoon. Though, that meant little, as Lord Corypheus dominated the conversation in most respects.

Lord Corypheus, it seemed, had an opinion on everything. The inn was too dank and cold, the weather was abysmal, the citizens of Haven were too uncouth and did not treat him with the respect he deserved. Lady Lavellan noted that he seemed to have no trace of humility in his body, and that he was absolutely horrid at small talk of any sort. She also noted that he took his tea with an absurd amount of sugar, so much that she wondered if there would be a syrupy sludge in the bottom of his teacup.

“I expect that you are wondering why I called you here,” he said as he spooned yet another portion of sugar into his second cup of tea. He stirred it with the spoon clasped delicately in his long fingers, then tapped the spoon against the side of the cup to clear the lingering drops of tea from it. “I shall enlighten you. The land which you have taken, the title which you claim as your own, all that you deem as yours is nothing but a lie. I am the rightful heir to Skyhold Manor and all lands which Duchess Justinia Divine owned. You aspire to a greatness which is not yours to hold.”

He spoke with such pomposity, as though he was certain no one could possibly speak against him. Lady Lavellan’s eyebrows rose, for she was quite struck by his audacity. She glanced first to Josephine on her left, then to Bull at her right, before turning her attention to her tea. Though she typically took it black, she poured a measure of cream into it, the action delaying her response. It was a petty thing, as Lord Corypheus waited for her speak.

Or, rather, he did not, for an instant before she could say anything he began to speak once more.

“The ring upon your finger, as well. It is no more than a stolen relic which you wear. It, too, belongs to the house of Dumat.”

“Strange,” Lavellan said, looking down at her ring before lifting her teacup to her mouth. “It does not _appear_ to be of Tevinter craftsmanship.”

“Lord Corypheus, if I may,” Lady Josephine said, for she was keenly aware that Lavellan was very much a fish out of water when it came to these sort of things. “Surely you must understand that a claim such as yours _must_ be backed up legally.”

“My lord has papers,” said Miss Calpernia, the first words she had spoken past introductions. “Without an heir to the Divine bloodline, his is the rightful claim.”

“Be that as it may,” Lady Josephine said, the slightest frown upon her brow, “those papers must be verified before a magistrate. For all that you speak of a right to the land, Lady Lavellan’s legal claim _has_ been verified, and as such she _is_ the rightful owner of Skyhold Manor, unless it can be proven otherwise.”

Bless Lady Josephine, Lavellan thought, for being so very accomplished as to give this Lord Corypheus pause. For there was, she thought, a brief flicker of something like concern upon his face.

“The papers will have to be ratified in Val Royeaux, of course,” Lady Josephine continued. “This _is_ Orlesian soil, after all.”

Beside her, Captain Bull gave a low chuckle. He had been quiet throughout the entirety of the afternoon, though not uncharacteristically so; for all that Bull could be loud and cause great amounts of pandemonium if he so wished, he could be equally quiet and circumspect when the situation required. Captain Bull was, Lavellan knew, watching and listening. It was why she had asked for him to be there with her.

That, and she thought he would likely be the only one to be able to stand toe to toe with this Lord Corypheus if things came to blows.

Lord Corypheus wore a rather disgruntled look upon his face. He added yet another spoonful of sugar to his tea, and Lavellan felt mildly ill just thinking of how overly saturated with sweetness it must be.

“I am curious as to why my ring is an issue in all of this,” Lavellan said, bringing his attention back to her, though in truth his attention had not wavered from her even when Lady Josephine spoke. “Surely such a trinket should be of little concern to one so great as you.”

Lord Corypheus’ mouth pressed into a thin line.

“That is no mere trinket that you carry,” he pontificated. “But you are so beneath it as to be unable to understand its importance.”

“Then perhaps you could explain it to me, my lord? In small words, as I fear I am far too dull and lowly to understand otherwise.”

Miss Calpernia’s eyes had narrowed and Mr. Samson sat a little straighter in his chair, a scowl upon his face. Beneath the table, Captain Bull tapped her foot with his boot in warning. Lady Josephine coughed politely.

“Perhaps we should have another round of tea?” she said, as Lady Lavellan and Lord Corypheus glared at one another.

***

“What a _terrible_ , thoughtless, _insulting_ man,” Lavellan said to Captain Bull as they left. She felt quite irritated by the entirety of the afternoon and was quite happy to be rid of unpleasant company. “If an entire mountain fell upon his head, I would not shed a _single_ tear.”

“That’s harsh, boss,” said Bull, though he seemed more amused by her outburst than anything. “

  
  


She nearly missed him as he walked towards them, so unassuming was he in his worn coat and cap. In fact, she did not realize it was him until just a moment before he spoke, when he lifted his chin to meet her eyes. She gave a very small start, pausing in step and causing Bull to slow in his own step.

“Mr. Solas!” she said, quite too loudly. Bull gave her a curious look.

“Lady Lavellan. A word, if you will?”

She glanced up at Bull, who raised an eyebrow at her. “I will meet you at Skyhold?”

“Sure thing, boss. I’ve got to go make sure the Chargers haven’t burned anything down. Can’t leave them alone for five minutes.” He nodded to Mr. Solas, jammed his hands into his pockets, and headed off down the streets.

Now, there was a brief moment where Mr. Solas simply looked at Lavellan and where she simply looked back at him. It was the first time they had encountered one another since their dance at Lady Josephine’s party, and Lavellan was quite surprised to realize that her heart had begun to beat a step faster. It thumped in her chest, and she thought it too loud.

“Shall we walk, Mr. Solas?” she asked him, and when he nodded she turned down the street and the two of them walked side by side. They wandered down the street, passing before shop windows, their feet crunching softly upon the snow of the salted sidewalk.

Though he had expressed an interest in speaking to her, Mr. Solas did not say anything for several moments, long enough that a silence spread between them. Lavellan was a little put off by this, and yet for some reason silence seemed somehow appropriate.

Still. He walked next to her and they _should_ speak. Of something, even if she could not fathom what he might wish to say to her.

“I have not seen you about since First Day,” Lavellan said when he seemed disinclined to speak. “You seemed to disappear, though with all of the commotion I do not blame you. Still, I did not have the chance to thank you for the dance. It was...most memorable. I did not realize you would be _quit_ e so good a dancer.”

To her surprise, he laughed. The sound was a chuckle deep in his throat, and it ended with what was possibly the most dignified snort she had ever heard.

“Ah, yes,” he said as they walked past a shop showing a display of fashionable hats - or presumably fashionable, though Lavellan did not understand _why_ they were thought so. “I was somewhat surprise myself; it has been a very long time since I have danced. It was a most memorable night. Though…” His countenance shifted; he suddenly looked quite introspective and somewhat regretful. “I should apologize. The dance was...ill-advised.”

Lavellan pursed her lips together. “Ill-advised? I hope that isn’t a comment upon my dancing skills.”

“No. It was not.” He took in a small breath. “You danced with a grace I had not expected.. I only meant that there was a level of impropriety in dancing with you. The fault is mine.”

She frowned deeply. Certainly dancing with him could not have been so very wrong? That he seemed so regretful cut in an odd way, and she felt a sinking in her heart.

“I hardly see how it was improper for us to dance,” she said, and perhaps she belied her ignorance of southern culture in that moment. “It was, after all, only a dance.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, and that he seemed almost sad. Lavellan refused to let herself dwell upon that; if he regretted dancing with her so deeply, then certainly she would view it as no more than a simple dance!

“Now, I am _certain_ you did not wish to speak with me about dancing, Mr. Solas. Was there something you wished to discuss?” She said it all as lightly as she could, not allowing any of the disappointment she felt to appear in her voice.

He clasped his hands behind his back as they continued to walk, and he looked away from her, out towards the skyline of the mountains visible beyond the rooftops.

“I have concerns about this Lord Corypheus,” he said, and his voice fell back into its usual even meter. “You should be wary of him. A man willing to go such lengths to confront you as he did should be considered a danger.”

Both of Lavellan’s eyebrows rose. “I assure you, Mr. Solas, I am _quite_ wary of him. But sure that is not all you have to say? You disappeared so fast at Lady Josephine’s party, but surely you saw the full extent of my encounter with him. What _I_ am most curious about at this point is why he is so interested in obtaining my ring. One would think a lord so high and mighty as himself would already have enough riches. Though it _is_ a pretty thing,” she said thoughtfully. And it was - she had spent long hours staring at it, though she had long since given up on trying to remove it. It sat so perfectly upon her hand, not too loose, not pinching her skin at all, and while she could twist it around her finger if she so wished, the moment that she attempted to remove it all together it would seem as though it had become adhered to her altogether.

Mr. Solas frowned very slightly, and his lips parted slightly as though he were just about to say something. His eyes flickered down to where her hand rested at her side, despite the ring being hidden by her glove.

“The ring you wear upon you finger...it is elvhen,” he said, and that startled Lady Lavellan so deeply that she nearly slipped upon a patch of ice. She hop-skipped forward and came to a stop, turning to face him.

“Are you certain?” she asked, even as she lifted her hand and removed her glove. “I would have known if it was dalish.”

“I did not say it was dalish,” Mr. Solas said, somewhat curtly. “I said it was of elvhen design.”

Cold air chilled her skin as her glove came off; she held her hand up before her eyes and looked at the ring. As always, she saw that it was elegant; she saw how the metal twisted and entwined with itself, intricate craftsmanship done by a skilled hand. She pressed her lips together and frowned, attempting to determine _what_ made it elvhen. Truly, it was not so gaudy and ornate as what she had seen of Orlesian fashions, and the lack of a dog motif meant that it was likely not Ferelden, but it had not struck her as _elvhen_. Though as she looked at it now with that in mind, she thought that it was _possible_. The ring certainly did look old, and the way the silver band was crafted, it looked almost like interlocking limbs of a tree, or perhaps the spiraling twist of antlers.

“Well,” she said, tugging her glove back upon the finger as the chill of the air began to bite too harshly at her skin, “even if it is of elvhen design, that does not mean it is elvhen. Many civilizations took from elvhen culture. This ring, as far as I know it, has been handed down through the family Divine. So if it _is_ elvhen, then it was owned by Orlesians and is now coveted by a Tevinter. That does not precisely answer my question as to why Lord Corypheus wants it. I suppose it may have to do with the magic in it. Is _that_ of elvhen design as well?”

It was a serious question, not meant to mock, but Mr. Solas frowned again. “I cannot say,” he told her, and Lady Lavellan sighed. So far, it seemed the only magic that lingered in the ring was there to keep it stuck to her finger. She found that most irritating.

“There must be something quite special about it if Lord Corypheus wants it so specifically,” she said as she made sure the edge of her coat tucked over the edge of her glove. It was still extraordinarily cold out. “Though he seems quite interested in _everything_ that I own. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was simply that envy demon come back to haunt me.”

Again, Mr. Solas surprised her by laughing. “That would not be the most surprising thing that I have seen, but I don’t believe that this Corypheus is a creature such as that. An ordinary man can covet as deeply as any envy demon; a creature like envy stems from the emotions of mortals after all.”

It seemed such a curious way to phrase it, but Lavellan supposed that, no, Lord Corypheus was likely _not_ an envy demon. Simply an insufferably, overly-confident, entitled man.

***

She took her leave of Mr. Solas not long later, fully intending to return to Skyhold Manor. But she was quickly waylaid by one more person. Lady Leliana caught her just as she was about to leave town, walking hurriedly towards her. She seemed to have absolutely no problem with the icier patches of ground, walking confidently as though the pavements were bare.

“Lady Lavellan, I have news,” she said, catching up with her when she stalled in her step. Leliana linked her arm with Lavellan’s, drawing her away from her intended course. “Walk with me,” she said, and Lavellan decided that today was certainly a day for conversations.

“Could we possibly get out of the cold?” she asked her, for she had been out slightly longer than she wished, and the wind had picked up enough to bite. Leliana seemed to consider this for a moment, and Lavellan found their course corrected quickly. She was tugged into the tailor’s shop, and Leliana pulled her before a row filled with bolts of fabric.

“Oh, how _dear_ ,” Leliana said, leaning down to examine a particularly delicate fabric. “It is not quite what you would see in Val Royeaux, but it is charming all on its own.”

“It’s...very pretty,” Lavellan said. “Lady Leliana, you said you had news?”

Leliana’s gaze slid to the back of the shop, where the seamstress was at work. She pitched her voice low. “I _do_. I found something very interesting in one of my books, you see. Papers, folded inside my copy of _Hard in Hightown_.”

Lavellan’s eyes went very wide. “ _Oh_ ,” she breathed, for she suddenly realized exactly what it was that Lady Leliana had found there. “Oh my.”

“I couldn’t help myself; I did read them,” Leliana continued, running her fingers over a bit of wool fabric, acting as though they were simply having a leisurely conversation. “I have read similar papers to them in the past, and I have to say that these were not quite the same papers I had read before. They were _very_ fascinating.”

Lavellan swallowed down a small lump of anxiety. For all that she was being coy with exact details, there was nothing accusatory about Lady Leliana’s words. “Fascinating _how?_ ” she asked, for she _was_ curious. The reform papers from Lady Fiona had always seemed to her to be more than they were, though she had not been able to determine _what_ was buried within them.”

Lady Leliana paused for a brief moment, and then a small smile appeared upon her lips.

“There is a cipher contained within those papers,” she said very quietly. There was a sort of anticipation in her voice; she seemed quite excited over the entirety of this.

“And...could you understand it?” Lavellan asked, and she found that there was anticipation in her own voice.

She nodded. “I could. I _did_. You may be interested to know what it hinted at, Lady Lavellan, for it may be of some use against Lord Corypheus.”

Lavellan’s breath caught.

“What did the papers say?” she asked, feeling entirely breathless.

Leliana’s smile grew slightly wider.

“They claim to know the location of Duchess Justinia Divine’s original will,” she said. “Or, at the very least, a part of it. And if we have her original will, then Lord Corypheus will have to work _much_ harder.”

***

She arrived at Skyhold Manor to find Cole waiting for her upon the front step. He did not seem to notice the cold, though he sat outside in nothing heavier than a shirt. His feet were bare, so pale and bloodless as to seem frozen with cold.

“Cole!” she exclaimed when she saw him, and he looked up at her with wide eyes. “What are you doing out here?”

“You are worried,” Cole said, his head tipped to one side, the too-long bits of his pale hair falling to the sides of his face.

“Of _course_ I’m worried!” She hurried to him, taking his arm and helping him up. He felt very chilled to the touch. “You’ll freeze out here!”

“No,” he said, though he let himself be pulled to his feet. “You’re worried, anxious, welling worry in your stomach like seasick. Papers pull and tear as easily as you can be torn down. You fear losing.” He tipped his head back. “But you are also worried that my toes will freeze off. You don’t have to worry; I am not real enough for my toes to freeze.”

“You are real enough to leave footprints on the snow,” she said, though she did note how shallow they were, as though Cole weighed nothing at all. As though he was real, but somehow not. A dead boy from a dream, she thought, and she ushered him inside the manor.

She was very cold herself, her nose stung by wind from the ride back to Skyhold, and so after removing her damp boots and her heavy coat, she made her way to the kitchen. Cole followed like a little shadow, mimicking her footsteps.

She pulled milk from the icebox and heated it in a pan upon the stove; from a small box she pulled a packed of rich brown powder which she added to the milk with sugar, stirring slowly until it was smooth. Cole watched curiously, quiet as she heated it to a near boil before portioning it out into two mugs.

“Here,” she said, passing one of the drinks to him. “This will warm you up. Bull showed me this; he gets it from home and is kind enough to share. It’s quite delicious.”

Cole looked at the drink, tipping the mug so that the liquid almost spilled from over the lip. He waited until she took a sip of her own cocoa before he tentatively raised the mug to his mouth.

“Oh,” he said after he had drunk a sip. A small line of chocolate lay upon his upper lip. “Warm and rich, the smell of Seheron, a little bit of home where everything is cold.” He tasted the cocoa again.

“Do you like it?” Lavellan asked, cradling her mug in her hands. She remembered the first time she had drunk cocoa, when Bull had made it for her over a fire. He had laughed at the awed expression upon her face.

Cole blinked. There was a soft, curious look upon his face.

“It is the first thing I have ever tasted,” he said. “I think I like it.”

A boy who was real, except not quite, she thought, and she watched him as he drank more of the cocoa, chocolate at the corners of his lips. There was something infinitely precious and wonderful about him.

“Cole,” she said, and he looked up at her. “When the mountain pass opens, I will be going to Val Royeaux on business. Would you like to come along?”

Again, he tilted his head to the side, considering.

“Yes?” he said distantly. “I would like to go with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a great need to share this wonderful photoshop my dear friend yamisnuffles did for my birthday with anyone who is interested, as she delightfully photoshopped [Solas's head onto Mr. Darcy and my Lavellan's head onto Elizabeth](http://yamisnuffles.tumblr.com/post/121143084326/happy-birthday-vespidaequeen-the-best-thing-i-can) . That's probably the face Solas was making at Lavellan through all of the First Day dance.


	16. Interlude the First: Winter's End

A note written in a careless scrawl:

_Piss off, Blackwall. If nobles don’t like workers protesting, maybe they should stop being stuck up pricks all the time._

_By the way, that lady’s back. You know,_ Lady Skyhold _. Pffft. Titles are stupid. But she’s back. Gonna see if she’s up for causing some trouble for nobles. She seemed the sort._

 

***

 

_Madame Vivienne de Fer cordially extends an invitation to her salon this Tuesday to Lady Lavellan of Skyhold. Please reply by courier no later than Sunday._

 

 _*_ **

 

_Court sessions resumed this Sunday, continuing debates about magical reform across Orlais and Ferelden. The proposed bill would address concerns about penalties for apostasy, as well as change the current structure for how mages are treated within society._

_Voting is anticipated to commence within several weeks._

\- taken from an Orlesian newspaper

 

***

 

 _Dear Mother_ ,

_I told you I would write back from Val Royeaux, and I’ve finally found time to. You wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been! Lady Lavellan has invited me along to a number of the functions she’s attended. It’s all very overwhelming, but very exciting! Of course, I can’t go to everything, so I’ve been spending my time exploring Val Royeaux with Lady Lavellan’s ward (I think that’s who he is?). He’s a sweet boy._

_I dined with Madame de Fer last week._ That _Madame de Fer, can you believe it? She’s amazing. And she spoke to me! I didn’t even drop my spoon on the floor when she did!_

 ~~_I haven’t met anyone in Val Royeaux._ ~~ ~~_No, there’s no one who seems like they’re going to make an offer. Besides, it’s_ ~~ ~~far~~ ~~_more fun to explore all the city_ ~~ _\- [a heavily scribbled out line, unreadable]_

_I haven’t met anyone. If someone ever makes an offer, you’ll be the first I write to._

_I plan to stay in Val Royeaux until Lady Lavellan returns to Haven. It will be several more weeks at least! It is much warmer here, and I think we all wish to wait until spring._

_Much love from your daughter,_

_Lace_

  


***

 

_Extra! Extra! Red Jenny strikes again!_

_Tuesday morning, Verchiel Industries was found to have been sabotaged by the elusive Red Jenny. Many have speculated that this would be the target of Red Jenny after the factory death’s last week. What Red Jenny means to gain from these actions remains unclear._

 

_***_

 

A selection of notes passed between two friends:

_If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’re going to get caught. - B_

_Piss off. I know what I’m doing. You’re the one who needs to watch out. You give shite answers when people ask you about stuff. - S_

_Hey I have a riddle for you: what’s big and grumpy and smells like a bear? - S_

_Ugh I’m joking. Drinks tomorrow? - S_

_Always. - B_

 

***

 

_My dear sister,_

_You will never believe what happened to day! Such scandal! Truly, this is the most exciting thing to happen in Val Royeaux since last season. You will, of course, be wanting to know what could possibly have happened, and when I tell you you shall be positively_ green _with envy!_

_As you know, I have been in attendance at Madame de Fer’s salons these past months. Do you remember that dalish woman I wrote to you about? “Lady Skyhold” or so we must call her, though that we afford her such honor is highly irregular given her low birth._

_Well, she is in Val Royeaux once again, and I have seen her twice (twice!) within the past weeks, and I must tell you that she is quite a curiosity, and I dare say that regardless of her unfortunate parentage, we will have to take some notice of her. One would expect a dalish savage to have dreadful table manners, but she conducts herself self - in fact, she greatly exceeds my expectations in all regards._

_I tell you this because there will undoubtedly be some outrage when the most recent events become public knowledge. There was a good deal of grumbling when the late Duchess Divine left that ruin of Skyhold manor to a dalish, but this will be exponentially greater._

_Some dreadful noble from Tevinter - Lord Caryopsides? Lord Coprophage? - has put forth a claim upon the lands held by the late Divine. Now, you know that I bear no_ personal _ill will against Tevinters, but they truly are a deplorable sort and I’d much prefer if they stayed within their own borders. Nevermind attempting this sort of expansion into Orlesian soil!_

_Whatever he had attempted to prove about his claim to the late Duchess’ fortune went quite awry, for quite short of gaining any land for himself, a newly uncovered document from Duchess Divine’s states that her holdings in Emprise du Lion will fall to whosoever holds Skyhold. To be circumvented only if a proper heir is discovered!_

_Naturally, this was a shocking development. It is well known that Duchess Divine_ has _no heir. Her bloodline is quite depleted. But a dalish, holding both Skyhold and Emprise du Lion? Such a shocking thing! It is well that Lady Skyhold is so well mannered, though I am certain all the nobility will be in_ quite _an uproar about this regardless._

_I do so look forward to seeing you come spring. You must take care of yourself, and give my regards to your husband!_

  


***

 

A letter written in an elegant hand:

_My dear, I could not help but notice that you wore the same dress last night as you had on our previous encounters. While green is undoubtedly stunning on you, the impression you make when wearing the same gown so often is far less so._

_With spring so near, as you well know, it is only proper to adopt the latest fashion. We will set up an appointment with my tailor and outfit you with a suitable wardrobe. As the new lady of both Skyhold and Emprise du Lion, you simply must make the proper impression._

_~ Madame de Fer_

***

 

Pride -

Thank you for the volume on the cultivation of the northern variant of black lotus. I must admit, I would dearly love to travel north and study the exact conditions wherein the plant flourishes, if that were at all possible. These books you send me are a great comfort to me, and has allowed me to ascertain why all of my lotus plants were dying so swiftly. I have great hope that I will be more successful with the Felandaris seeds you sent me.

To answer your previous query: yes, the townsfolk of Ville Montevalen remain wary of me. I expect they think me an apostate, though they have no proof of that matter. I will, however, be fine. No one has bothered me, and I am content to keep to myself.

And now a query of my own: you simply _must_ tell me more of this Lavellan! It is an old name, as you are no doubt aware of, and I know you well enough to read between the lines of your letter. You have not spoken so highly of anyone in years!

You must visit me soon, my old friend.

-Wisdom


	17. In which an artist's work is seen for the first time

 

“Remember, my dear,” said Madame Vivienne as Lady Lavellan was handed up into the carriage. “Should you need absolutely _anything_ , you need only to write. I will be happy to advise you on any of the matters that will arise in your new situation.”

“Thank you, Lady Vivienne,” Lavellan said with a warm smile. She had quite enjoyed her visits with Madame Vivienne over the past month and a half. The woman was incredibly accomplished and poised in a way that Lavellan was not quite able to attain, and in the wake of what had occurred with Lord Corypheus, she had been quick to offer advice. “Perhaps next time I visit, I will finally meet your Bastian?”

Madame Vivienne smiled, a small, true smile that came out most often when Bastian was mentioned. “Perhaps. He has expressed an interest in meeting you, though he has been gone so often these days that it has been hard to arrange it. And you _will_ invite me to Skyhold when the repairs have been completed?”

“Of course!” Privately, she did not think repairs would be fully completed for some time, but the main hall would likely be done soon after she returned home. “I would very much like you to visit. And again, thank you for everything.”

“Anything, my dear,” Madame Vivienne said, and the door to the carriage was shut. Lavellan settled back upon the seat as they pulled away from the estate.

It was only a short ride, for she would take the train from Val Royeaux out through Emprise du Lion before returning to Haven by coach. At the station, two figures waited for her - Miss Harding, who wore a brightly adorned bonnet and Cole, who seemed no more than a shadow beside her. Had Lavellan not known he would be there, she wondered if she would have overlooked him. Many people, it seemed, did not see the pale, slender boy with his wide eyes and his straw hair even when he was right beside them.

“Nice of you to make it,” Miss Harding said as she stepped down from the carriage, her luggage being unloaded beside her. She wrinkled her nose. “Wow, you really _did_ do a lot of shopping. How many things did you get?”

“A great deal too many,” Lavellan said, which was possibly untrue given her current situation, but felt entirely truthful to her. Everything felt excessive to the point of the ridiculous, but she had been assured that she _must_ have several gowns in the style of the season, along with appropriate hats and gloves. There were more items that had been purchased and sent ahead to Skyhold Manor, to be place in the newly repaired rooms, and she had made arrangements for the newly hired staff.

It was such an entirely different world from how things had been only several months before in Wycome.

They boarded the train not soon after, their luggage safely stowed. They found their compartment and Lavellan took a seat. Cole slid in beside her, and Miss Harding settled down on the opposing side. At first, it appeared as though the three of them would be alone in the compartment, but just as the train had begun to rumble in the beginnings of movement, the door slid open.

“There is an insufferable man in the compartment we have been assigned,” said the woman who appeared in the doorway. “Might we sit here?”

The “we” was quickly explained when a young boy poked his head out from behind the woman’s skirts. He had wide, dark eyes and severely parted dark hair. He looked at Lavellan and, after a brief, bewildering moment, he smiled at her.

“Of course,” Lavellan said, after a glance passed between her and Miss Harding. There was, after all, more than enough room within the compartment. Miss Harding switched to the same side as her, her toes barely skimming the floor as she settled down once more. The woman stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter the compartment; she followed in his wake. They both sat demurely upon the seat, though the boy caught at the folds of her skirt as though it was a lifeline.

It was very quiet within the compartment for some time. Beside her, Cole seemed suddenly very vibrant, though he said nothing.

There was an oddness to the woman that Lavellan could not quite place. It seemed almost as though she was slightly displaced; the boy even more so. Colors seemed bright, more real upon them, each line and plane of their faces more deliberate in make and shape. And yet she blinked and they were as normal as any other person she had met. The rich wine of the woman’s skirt was no more than a muted purple linen; the boy in his simple coat and trousers diminished until he was only that - a boy.

Beside her, Cole fidgeted.

Outside of the train car, the countryside flew past. They crossed over the river and past the hills that surrounded Val Royeaux, plummeting further into the south. It was all so very different than it had been last she took the trip to Val Royeaux - for one, she had not gone by train previously. And for another, the land was no longer caught in the dreary grip of winter. The hills had changed from muted purples and greys to green, and the fields had begun their return to lush, living plants. As the train drew them further towards the Dales, the land became greener and greener.

Looking out the window, Lavellan felt something fragile and delicate catch beneath her breastbone.

Across the compartment, the boy turned his face up towards the woman in purple and whispered something in her ear that Lavellan could not hear. The woman’s eyebrows rose.

“If you desire an answer, Kieran, then you must ask her yourself.”

The boy, with his great, wide, dark eyes, looked straight at her.

“Your blood is very old,” he said, which was very much not a question.

Lavellan was quite taken aback by this. _Her_ blood? _Old?_ Certainly, she was slightly past the age by which most women would be married, and it was slightly improper that she was out in society in the way that she was, but she was not _old_. If she were three or five or seven years younger, a woman born of noble blood who was brought up within the rules of polite society, perhaps she would have had her turn as young as eighteen. She could have dazzled, she could have charmed. She could have been something other than what she was.

Oh, but that was a dreadful thought. As soon as it came, it was gone. Were she anything but herself, she would be false.

Perhaps the boy saw the offense upon her face, or possible his mother did. There was a sharp bark of laughter.

“He remarks upon your blood only because it _is_ remarkable,” the woman said. “If I might warrant a guess, I would say that you must be the Lady Lavellan of Skyhold. Remarkable for many reasons, and spoken of by many tongues in recent days.”

That was something she knew well. Val Royeaux was filled with wagging tongues, and she had heard her own name in passing many times since the news of Emprise du Lion had become common knowledge. Not all spoke in kind tones.

She tried to determine if this woman was unkind. Though her features were sharp, she did not seem to judge her; there was no cruel glint in her eye that suggested she would speak ill of her ears once her back was turned. Still, one could not always tell from the face that people wore how kind their hearts truly were.

“I am Lady Lavellan, you are correct in that,” she said. “And you?”

The woman smiled and there Lavellan saw the slightest hint of an edge. “My name is Morrigan,” she said. “And this is my son, Kieran.”

Lavellan noted that she gave no way of address and no family name. She did not press for one.

“We’re going to Halamshiral,” said Kieran. He tilted his head to the side. “Are you going to the Dales?”

“Not so far South as Halamshiral,” Lavellan said, though there was a part of her that ached at the sound of that name, for she did greatly desire to venture deeper into the Dales. “We go north to Emprise du Lion.”

“Of course,” said Morrigan, her mouth curled into a smile. “Surely one so newly come into power must see to her new land. If you should ever come further south, perhaps our paths will cross once again.”

She said it so oddly - as though an assurance that it was something that would, indeed, come to pass.

***

The boy and his mother got off the train at the transfer station; they would go south, further into the Dales, while Lavellan would continue on the same train as it wound north once more.

“That,” Miss Harding said after their two temporary traveling companions, “was very odd.”

“I quite agree,” said Lady Lavellan, who had felt the entire encounter very strange.

“Old, ancient things, like the memory of beauty when all lights have gone dark,” Cole said then, in his soft, distant voice. “Never a child; dreaming in mirrors, of mirrors, until the reflection seems real.”

It was such a strange thing to say, but Lavellan had begun to realize that Cole would often times say such odd things. He was such a strange, dream-like creature himself, and yet he was undeniably a human boy.

She wasn’t certain what he was referring to with him comment now, not when the young boy had spoken of her blood as _old_. Did Cole speak of her? Or did he speak of one of their companions?

After a brief stop at the transfer station, the train continued on it’s way northward to Sahrnia within the Emprise du Lion. The land began to gradually rise, then turn into the sloping foothills that lay before the Frostback Mountains. There was less of the verdant foliage that she had only just glimpsed to the south; instead, the Emprise du Lion was a rocky, alpine area. The trees stretched tall and straight, small shrubby plants sprawling along the ground between them save where the rock of the hills peaked through.

The train followed the river through the land, winding north. Here and there, the slowly melting remains of snowbanks could still be seen, and it was only the earliest of blooming plants that they saw, the ground otherwise being fairly monotonous in its coloration.

Their journey had been long by the time that they arrived in Sahrnia. The town was a sprawl of brightly colored houses set within a valley, and she could see the snowline of the mountains not far ahead. Here, the river grew treacherous with snowmelt, a frothing rush that Lavellan knew would be deadly to anyone who dared to fall in.

Here was the last stop for the train; she could see the tracks that stretched past, but knew they connected to nothing. Not yet, at least - someday soon they would reach all the way to Haven and continue on to Ferelden.

They stayed two days in Sahrnia, for Lavellan had those in power to meet with, and she had thought it best to see something of the land that now fell under her name. She was met with wary stares and followed by whispers. Miss Harding thought the whole place terribly suspect; Cole was seen by none but the two of them.

From there, they began the last leg of their journey, taking a carriage from Sahrnia up into the mountains.

*

And so they finally arrived in Haven, after a long journey. It was late afternoon when Lavellan and Cole finally returned to Skyhold Manor after dropping Miss Harding at the door of her mother’s shop. The sun had begun its descent by the time the manor came into view.

It was a much different sight from how it had been in the winter; while there were still a few disappearing patches of snow, the courtyard gardens had begun to return to life, and the manor beyond seemed to be so much brighter in the flush of early spring. Everything had turned to green, leaving the greyness of winter behind.

Now, though she had been absent in Val Royeaux, there were a great deal of changes to the manor and estate that Lavellan had put in order. She had facilitated the hiring of staff to see the grounds and the house cared for, and through correspondence with Lady Josephine she had determined something of the finances for the estate and wages for those under her employ.

She found the manor _much_ more lively upon her return.

There was, of course, Senna Dennet, who tended to the horses as they arrived. She had been at Skyhold and in Haven for some time now, and Lavellan greeted her happily. She was a pretty woman with a good hand with horses, and she had been quite glad to find employ outside of Redcliffe. The next in a long line of the finest stablemasters around, she had said, and so far she had done an exemplary job.

Then there were those new to Lady Lavellan’s employ. The new cook, for one, a short, stocky man by the name of Cabot who seemed to be perpetually wry and only somewhat surly. A groundskeeper by the name of Elan Ve’mal, who was thin and wiry and whose impressive green thumb had been overlooked far too many times simply on account of her delicately pointed ears. There were others as well - another elvhen woman named Ritz, a quartermaster named Threnin, and yet another somewhat surly man by the name of Harritt, to name only a few.

 _Skyhold must have those to care for it_ , Madame Vivienne had told her over luncheon only a few days into her first week back in Val Royeaux. _You will be called to entertain more than you have been previously; you are now Lady Skyhold and you hold Emprise du Lion. You must appear up to the task of appearing as a noble, for that is what you are now._

Truly, Madame Vivienne’s advice had been greatly needed, though Lavellan was still uncertain as to _why_ her attentions had fallen upon her.

There was a letter waiting for her upon her arrival home, a single sheet of parchment informing her that Captain Bull had taken his company west and that he would write to let her know when they would be returning. She felt a pang of sadness to know that they were gone once more, for the absence of Bull and Krem was always sad to her, but this was an inevitability. The Charger were a military company, and they did not often stay in one place for long.

And so it was to this that spring began.

***

There were a number of oddities and curiosities about Cole, and most of them Lavellan accounted to the circumstances of his nature. He was, she theorized, a dream thing made reality, though by what manner she could not tell. He was similar to, but separate from, the demon of envy. Perhaps she ought to have been frightened of him, but she was not. Cole seemed to her many things - kindness, curiosity, a sense of quiet helpfulness - but he was not fearful.

She had found, however, that not everyone could see him.

At first, she had tried to attribute this to how quiet he was. Certain he had startled her on occasion while they were in Val Royeaux, entering a room, thinking it empty, only to find that he had been quietly sitting in a corner, as still as a mouse. She tried to rationalize it as his clothes that seemed to turn to muddy obscurity as soon as he donned them, or the faded sunlight of his hair. But magical things could not always be rationalized, and Cole was magical. He blended into the surroundings like a half remembered thought, and if he was not specifically brought to the forefront, others did not see him.

Even Miss Harding, who had spent quite some time with him while in the city, seemed to barely keep him in her memory past seeing him. She certainly _saw_ him, but the moment he was no longer in a room it seemed as though he passed from her thoughts as though he had never been.

Perhaps, Lavellan pondered, the reason why she, herself, could keep him in her thoughts so clearly was because that had been the first place she had met him.

Cole had his own room in Skyhold Manor, though he was not often found there. He seemed to drift from room to room; sometimes in the study, sometimes in the parlor. Now and again he would be in the kitchen - she once saw him there poking through a bag of turnips.

Sometimes, she could not find him at all. Always, he would reappear, though not always without causing her worry first.

It was a day perhaps a week after their return to Skyhold when he went missing. It was a preternaturally warm day for so early spring, a bright and blue day where very few clouds were scattered in the sky and the first mountain flowers of the year began to pop their heads above the ground in furious color.

And Cole was nowhere to be found.

At first, Lavellan paid his absence little heed; Cole did not need to be constantly attended to, and while she had introduced him as her ward several times in Val Royeaux, that was not _who_ he was. So she dithered in the garden with Miss Ve’mal and dirtied a pair of work gloves considerably for much of the morning.

But Cole remained missing for all of lunch, and she began to feel a slight twinge of worry. So she checked his room and she checked the library and she checked the study. They were all empty, as was the kitchen, save for Mr. Cabot grumpily peeling turnips.

“Have you seen Cole?” she asked him, and he looked at her quizzically.

“Who?” he asked.

“Cole. He is just a little taller than me, with blond hair,” she said, patiently, for she knew that not everyone could remember him.

“Huh. Rings a bell, but I can’t recall anyone named Cole. The door leading out the kitchen was open earlier, if that helps.”

It did. Lavellan quickly pulled on her lighter coat - no longer needing the heavy wool and fur trimmed monstrosity she wore during the winter - and tugged on a slim pair of calfskin gloves and then she was was out the door.

She wondered, then, as a stray, terrible thought, what happened to a dream when it was forgotten too long. Could Cole disappear should she forget him? What was he, and how was he here, and how could he go once more?

There was a small path that lead from the kitchen out into the estate proper; she followed it across the lawn and down to the edge of the woods. There was no certainty that Cole had come this way; there was, of course, no certainty that he was here at all. Lavellan felt a small, choked bit of worry catch under her breastbone. She beat it back quite ferociously, for she was being _quite_ silly.

She _hoped_ she was being quite silly.

But Cole was not in Haven; he was not at the inn or at Miss Harding’s mother’s tailor shop, and he was not in the market and he was not at Lady Josephine’s office. She could not find him anywhere, and no one had seen him. No one knew a pale slip of a dream who had visited with them.

Worry caught in her chest like a knife, Lavellan started back up to Skyhold Manor. She took the path back through the woods, but part way there she felt something like a tug within her heart. It pulled at her as she came to a fork in the path.

She paused, curious, and she put one foot down the pathway that would return her to Skyhold. The pressure in her chest increased. She put a foot on the other fork in the road and, as she expected, the pressure eased.

There was no so much magic left in the world as to be commonplace; yet Lady Lavellan knew just enough to know that when something compels you to go one direction or another, sometimes it is best to follow. Sometimes, it is some soft, delicate remnant of magic long thought forgotten.

So she took the right-most fork of the path and followed it into the woods.

It was still crisp and cool out of the sunlight. The small plants of the forest were just beginning to come back, unfurling leaves into the small rays of sun that cut through the canopy. Beneath the evergreens, ferns unraveled amidst the best of long-shed needles and old pine cones.

She followed the path until it lead her to a clearing, and it was there that she heard laughter.

It was a peculiar, soft, familiar laugh that she had heard before, an elegant chuckle caught in the back of a throat.

“An interesting question, to be certain,” she heard a voice she knew all too well say, and she felt the strangest stuttering of her heart in her chest. “If I might theorize, I would suggest that it was due to the thinness of the Veil in this area. What is strange is that you were able to leave the area where you came through. _That_ is atypical, and quite fascinating.”

“Curious and sad; old magic that shouldn’t exist anymore. Memories like faded sunlight, when everything was different. What does that _mean?_ ”

 _Cole_.

She felt the strongest sense of relief, and as she stepped out of the trees she was able to see them. Two figures, sitting out in the middle of the clearing amid the early spring blossoms.

“It means that you are unique,” said Mr. Solas, who sat upon a smooth outcropping of rock, an easel before him. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and as she neared she saw that he held a slim stick of charcoal in his hand. And as she neared, he looked up at her.

“We have a visitor,” Mr. Solas said, and as he looked at her, so she looked at him, and she felt that most peculiar twinge in her chest.

 _Oh_ , she thought. _Oh dear. I_ missed _him._

It was undeniably true; she had _missed_ him.

What a strange thing to realize.

Mr. Solas set down his stick of charcoal and wiped his hand upon a rather ratty bit of cloth already stained with smudges of black and paint. “Lady Lavellan,” he said, with an inclination of his head. There was something very soft about how his mouth curved.

“Mr. Solas,” she said, and she stepped through the grass and flowers to reach them. Cole sat crosslegged upon the ground beside Mr. Solas. In his lap rested what looked to be an open sketchbook. “I see you have met Cole.”

Cole perked up, tilting his head so that he could see her clearly. “Solas has been telling me about what I am,” he said softly. “And he has been showing me his artwork.”

Lavellan began to kneel upon the ground beside Cole. She paused for a moment, her eyes meeting those of Mr. Solas. “May I?” she asked, and she saw the way the corners of his mouth pulled into the smallest of smiles.

“Of course,” he said, and Cole passed her the sketchbook.

She had not seen Mr. Solas’ work before; ostensibly, she’d known that he was an artist. She had, at least, _assumed_ that Lady Cassandra had told the truth on that matter, and she had seen him on more than one occasion in the possession of various implements of artistry - canvas and sketchbook and charcoal. But she had never seen so much as a line of a sketch or a stroke of paint, and so when she took to sketchbook from Cole and laid it out upon her knees, she was uncertain what to expect.

“ _Oh,_ ” she said, her fingers lightly settled upon the corner of the pages. She took in the first page and, with a sense of wonder, turned to the next, and then to the third. “ _Oh!_ ”

What she saw upon those first pages were exquisite renderings of animals. Of plants. They were incredibly detailed, drawn with a careful, fine hand. The first she saw were almost clinical in how carefully they were drawn, and when she came to a page that showed the cross section of a flower she was not surprised.

She looked up at Mr. Solas. “These are incredible!” she said, astounded. “Why, these are of the quality one would expect accompanying a paper, or included in a published text!”

“They are,” said Cole as, curiously, Lavellan saw the tips of Mr. Solas’ ears grow pink. “He said that they were done for academic journals.”

Lavellan blinked, for this was a surprise and yet, somehow, entirely expected. Of _course_ he would be such an artist. Calmly clinical and academic; drawings of the most strictly scientific.

She turned another page. A rendering of the bone structure of a bird beside a study of an extended wing, the overlay of feathers done in thin, faint lines above bone. She began to turn to the next page.

“He found it on the ground, already dead. Delicate things with such short lives; bones and feathers, already decomposing. There is knowledge, even in death.” Cole’s voice was a whisper where he rested his cheek against her shoulder, looking at the drawings with her.

Mr. Solas suddenly gave a start, as though he had found himself with a terrible thought. “Perhaps I should take that back,” he said, a hand half extended. Lavellan’s fingers curled around the page. She considered the progression of the images and she made a guess as to what might cause him concern.

“If you are worried that I might grow faint at the renderings of dissected animals, then you must have forgotten that I grew up in a dalish clan. We _hunt_ ; I have seen my share of dead creatures.”

She turned the page.

 _Oh_ , she thought, as surprised as when she had looked upon the first of the sketches. For it was not more anatomical renderings that covered the next page, nor the one after. It was almost as though an entirely different man had drawn these, so far removed were they from the sharp realism of the images before.

She saw, upon the page, drawn in a stylized hand, the image of a wolf, it’s head thrown back, a howl caught within its throat. It was blocked in roughly, but with so much more life than the other drawings. And upon the next page, she saw what looked to be Haven, the shapes blurred with charcoal. And the next still, a strange creature with long legs and arms, something she knew out of a dream. She looked up them; first to Mr. Solas, then to the stand before him where a thick sheaf of paper held the beginnings of another drawing. She saw, now, the curve of Cole’s jaw sketched upon the paper, the outlines of his face, and how the charcoal lines had been smoothed and pulled into shadows.

It was not so much the subject of each drawing that surprised her; it was how different they seemed from the first pages of his sketchbook.

“These are....” she began, and she had to pause for a moment, for she could not quite find the words. She looked from the easel back to Mr. Solas, and then she had to look away again, back to the paper of the sketchbook. “Quite remarkable,” she said, her thumb resting lightly on the edge of the page. “You have quite a breadth of style.”

“Different faces,” Cole said softly. “One that is shown, one that stays hidden.”

Lavellan frowned. “You do not show these?” she said, indicating the latter of the drawings. When she glanced up, there was an odd tenseness in his face that slowly faded.

“The first are done for scientific study; a livelihood, if you will. The latter? No, they are rarely shown. Many of them are not done as a finalized piece; many become paintings,” he told her.

Lavellan closed the sketchbook and passed it back to him. “Thank you for allowing me to look at these,” she said, and she smiled kindly at him.

“Of course,” he said, and he took the book from her. As he did so, his fingers brushed against hers. She was, quite suddenly, painfully aware of how he wore no coat, of how his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. She recalled, vividly, how his ears had gone pink only a few minutes before and for one brief moment she thought of his hand upon her waist as they danced.

“You, ah, that is,” she began, and felt her voice far too unsteady. It took only a moment for her to compose herself, only a breath. “Cole said that you knew of what he is?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Solas as he returned his sketchbook to a satchel. “Cole is a spirit. One rare and remarkable. Most spirits to not exist long in our world; it is harsh and unkind, and most do not survive here long. Those that do are seen only where they originally manifested here, for they can exist either where the Veil is thin or within another. And yet Cole possesses no body but has told me of how he accompanied you to Val Royeaux.”

“A spirit?” Lavellan looked to Cole, where he sat beside her. The grass he sat upon crushed outward; he was very much solid and tangible. “Do you know what you are a spirit of?”

Cole shook his head, his thin fair hair flopping upon his forehead. “No. I just want to help.”

“You _have_ helped,” Lavellan said. She brushed his hair from his eyes. “You’ve helped me quite a lot.”

Cole was looking at her then, out of his wide, hollowed eyes. “You want to ask him if I’ll fade away if you can’t see me. You were frightened, because dreams don’t always last past waking, but I did. You’re afraid of what will happen if no one else can remember me. But you don’t have to worry, because _he_ will remember me, too.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Solas. “It is an understandable worry, though one I believe is unfounded. You are quite real, Cole, regardless of whether or not everyone can see or remember you.”

“I would like to be real,” said the boy who was also a spirit and a dream, and he said it as though he did not fully believe that it could be true. “Thank you for saying that I am.”

Lavellan felt something, then - something infinitely small and sad and precious all coiled within her heart. There was a part of her which ached at the sadness in Cole’s voice when he said that, and the genuine feeling in his expression of thanks. And there was a part of her that thought of how this man, who she had once argued with so violently, would have such softness towards this boy who was brought out of a dream.

 _Different faces_ , Cole had said. She felt as though she was seeing a new one of Mr. Solas’, and she found that she rather liked it.

“Mr. Solas,” she said then, a sudden thought caught in her mind and a small hiccup of emotion caught under her breastbone. “Would you care to come to dinner tomorrow evening? That is, I will be hosting a dinner on the morrow, and I would be quite happy if you were to attend.”

She saw that expression that was sometimes found upon his face when they spoke - a fleeting look of surprise that raised his brow and widened his eyes.

She said “Cole will be there as well, of course.”

Cole said  “We’re having a dinner?”

And Mr. Solas smiled very softly and very genuinely, and he said “Yes. I will attend.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for sticking around so long! We’re now officially into the second part of the story, after the timeskip from the last chapter (as you can see, Skyhold Manor has been upgraded!). There's still a whole lot of story left to go, so hopefully you'll all continue to enjoy! A big thank you to [RedSummerRose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSummerRose/pseuds/RedSummerRose), who's been a wonderful sounding board for this entire story.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who's been reading and for all the wonderful comments that people have left. It's wonderful to know that you're all enjoying this, and you're a huge part of why I've been able to keep this going for over 70,000 words now!


	18. In which Lady Lavellan hosts a dinner party

It took not long at all for Lady Lavellan to realize that she was in _quite_ over her head.

“ _Tonight?_ ” said Lady Josephine when Lavellan told her of her plans, with a surprised look on her face. “Of course I will help. But why such short notice?”

“I would not miss it for anything,” said Lady Leliana as she caught her and Cassandra strolling through town. “I’ve so wanted to see what you’ve done with Skyhold since the winter! Cassandra, you’ll come as well, I’m certain?”

“I’ll be there,” said Mr. Tethras when Lavellan met him coming out of the bookshop. “I’ve got a friend newly arrived in town who’d love to see Skyhold. You all right with one extra guest?”

By the time that she returned to Skyhold, Lavellan’s head was spinning. She thought, in the manner of someone who has made a terrible mistake and has only just realized it: _I have made a terrible mistake_.

She had never hosted a dinner like this before. Not in such a rich house, not with someone she was - _well_. She was entirely out of her depth in almost every way.

It was not as though she had not held dinners when she had been with her clan, but those had been different. Those had been with family, even if she had not been related to the entirety of the clan by blood. There had been none of the pomp and circumstance she had seen at Madame de Fer’s parties, nor even the stiff courtesy of those hosted by Lady Josephine or Mr. Tethras. If she had to make a comparison, she would say that they were most like dining with Captain Bull and Krem - casual and raucous, with someone’s elbows always finding their way into the pudding and at least one drink spilled upon the table.

Lavellan was not at all prepared to host a party befitting of the station she now found herself in. Not at all. She supposed that it was best that she began as she was - with the friends she had made within Haven. Or, at least, a portion of them. Dorian and Felix had left prior to her arrival - a supposed trip to the University of Orlais had been in order, though they said they would return before the end of the season. Miss Harding, when she had asked her, had given a rather mournful _no_ , citing that she had to help in her mother’s shop, but that she would be certain to attend the next dinner.

Now, the actual preparations were not as dire as she initially thought, and in truth there was no real need to impress any of her guests. Lady Josephine arrived early and helped her as best she could. Which was to say that she listed off a number of things that Lavellan would need to attend to, and Lavellan nodded and wrote them down and set about getting them done. Lady Josephine knew how to throw a dinner; in fact, Lady Josephine knew how to do just about everything that Lavellan needed to know.

Food was prepared and the dining table was set. Lavellan only panicked about three times, but she was at least visibly calm by the time that the first guest arrived. _Visibly_ , though she still held the anxiety of someone doing something of importance for the first time and being entirely uncertain as to whether or not it would actually work.

Her guestlist had been rather short, though perhaps a little large for a small dinner. Save for Mr. Tethras’ mystery guest, they were all people who she was quite friendly with and did, in fact, consider to be friends.

Cole had been curiously drifting about the house as preparations were made, and as it grew close to the hour specified for the dinner, Lavellan found him sitting at one of the windows that overlooked the front courtyard.

“There is a bird at the door,” he said as she approached, looking away from the window. “It was wounded, but I think it will be all right.”

“ _What?_ ” Lavellan had a brief, sudden image of a stunned, injured bird laying upon the front step, one who had flown into the window or into the harsh stone of the manor. But it was then that there was a knock upon the front door, the sort of knock made by a person not a bird, and a moment later a _Mr. Tethras and friend_ were announced.

“Mr. Tethras! I am delighted to see you. And this is…?”

Now beside Mr. Tethras stood a woman who was perhaps half a head taller than Lavellan. She had the look of someone from the farthest north reaches of the continent, with brown skin and black hair that had been bound up at the back of her head. She had a very defined jaw and the most impressively hooked nose that Lavellan had ever seen. She was a strikingly beautiful woman.

“Lady Lavellan, allow me to introduce my dearest friend, the Lady Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.” He gave a small bow followed by an elegant flourish of his hand.

The Lady Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, rolled her eyes and gave a rather unladylike sigh. “ _Varric_. What have I told you? It’s Lady _Champion_ Hawke, formerly of the cesspit that is our dear Kirkwall.”

“So _you’re_ the Champion of Kirkwall?” Lavellan asked, her eyebrows have risen quite abruptly at the revelation. “I’ve read about you.”

Lady _Champion_ Hawke, formerly of Kirkwall, gave another dramatic sigh. “Most people have,” she said. “To stem the tide of question: yes, there was more than one cave in Kirkwall. No, my siblings are very much alive, _thank you Varric_. And, yes, that bit with Orsino made no sense at all and in actuality _didn’t_ happen.”

“It was artistic license,” Mr. Tethras said, only slightly put out. “You needed one more insurmountable challenge and he was the only one who fit the story!”

“A _lot_ of it was artistic license,” Lady Hawke said. “Now, I would like to know how much artistic license Varric has taken with _you!_ Miss Lady Lavellan of Wycome, of Skyhold, of Emprise du Lion, of Wycome. That’s how he writes it, by the way,” she said in a stage whisper.

“I prefer to be as accurate as possible when writing,” Mr. Tethras said in the most serious voice she had ever heard from him. Lady Hawke gave a snort of laughter, and Lavellan was struck by how very comfortable the two of them were with each other.

She had, in the past months, picked up _The Tale of the Champion_. It had been an enjoyable read, if one saturated with a deep feeling of hopelessness, like a train about to go off the rails at any moment with no one to stop it. It was billed as a biography; Lavellan had felt that it would also do quite well as a tragedy.

It had been quite obvious that Mr. Tethras had cared quite a lot of Lady Hawke; to see their friendship in person was something else entirely. It reminded her somewhat of the dynamic she saw between Captain Bull and his company.

“Perhaps you would like to retire to the sitting room until the rest of the guests arrive? Lady Montilyet is already here, though we await several other dear friends,” Lavellan said, directing them away from the front door.

“Oh, _certainly_. But you will have to give us a tour of Skyhold later? Everyone is _ever_ so curious about it!” Lady Hawke said. She was quite enthusiastic in a way that Lavellan could not quite determine if it was genuine or sarcastic.

They had not been long removed when the door was once again answered; it was Lady Leliana and Lady Cassandra. The former seemed quite bright as she gave her greetings to the others already assembled, but as soon as her eyes lit upon Lady Hawke they went quite wide indeed.

Had Lady Lavellan known that Mr. Tethras’ friend was the Champion of Kirkwall even an hour prior to their arrival at Skyhold Manor, she could have averted some of the discomfort that was to come with placing her in the same room as Mr. Tethras and Lady Cassandra. She had no way of knowing that the way Leliana’s eyes slid from Lady Hawke to Cassandra to Mr. Tethras spoke of a knowledge of what was to come. She did note how Lady Cassandra’s face went dangerously blank at the sight of Mr. Tethras and Lady Hawke.

“She is very angry,” said Cole from where he stood, seemingly mostly unobserved. Lady Hawke’s eyes widened as though she had only just realized there was another in the room.

Lady Lavellan could have asked him on this, but it is very true that she did not understand all the complexities of this particular situation. She knew, of course, of Lady Cassandra’s fascination of the Champion and of what had occurred in Kirkwall only a few years before, but she had no way of knowing precisely what had happened between her and Mr. Tethras that would account for the sudden tension in the room.

Before anything could be said or done to account for anyone’s feelings or knowledge, they were once more interrupted by the final member of the party. Mr. Solas was announced to the room, and Lady Lavellan’s heart made a singular flip within her chest and then seemed to take off at a run.

He appeared to be in good health, as he had the day before, and he wore a coat that was much less shabby than those he normally wore. There was nothing that should have made her heart take off in the manner that it did. She put it down to anxiety over hosting even a small dinner.

“Mr. Solas, I am so glad that you could join us tonight,” she said. “It does appear that there are a few introductions to make, as we have two here who not everyone has met.”

“Two?” Lady Leliana said, as she took in those in the room.

“You do not have to see me, I do not mind,” said Cole, and Lavellan saw Hawke startle at his voice.

“Yes, two,” she said, and she touched Cole lightly upon the shoulder. “This is Cole, who I believe only Mr. Solas has met. And Mr. Tethras has brought a dear friend with him.”

“Lady Hawke, formerly of Kirkwall,” said Lady Hawke with an overly extravagant curtsey. Cassandra’s mouth grew pinched; Leliana’s face went carefully blank, though her eyes darted ever more to Cassandra.

It was to all of their good fortune that nothing catastrophic happened at that precise moment. It would have reflected quite poorly upon Lady Lavellan had her first hosted dinner gone to pieces within five minutes of the guests arriving.

Now between herself and Lady Josephine, Lavellan had managed to construct together some semblance of a proper dinner. Indeed, they had the resources and the staff to do such a thing, and so it was not long before all her guests were seated and the first course was served - a light soup, as Lady Josephine had suggested as the proper way to start such a meal.

“Mr. Tethras,” Lady Lavellan said after they had all been served and polite conversation began. “It has been several months that your newest serial has been in publication, has it not? It is going well, I presume?”

Lady Hawke appeared to be hiding a laugh in her soup.

“My dear Lady Lavellan, it goes exceedingly well,” said Mr. Tethras, with all the grace and charm of someone simultaneously attempting to glare at a friend across the centerpiece. “Why, _Swords and Shields_ has sold out of the printing of the first chapter!”

“To say nothing about the second chapter. Or the third,” Lady Hawke said. “Varric, have you told them what it’s about? You _must_ tell it to them like you told it to me.”

Mr. Tethras cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was with a low, full, rather dramatic tone. “ _Swords and Shields:_ a romance of high passions and low morals. A guard captain finds love amidst a turbulent city full of crime and deceit. Can love conquer all, or will the guard captain have to take justice into her own hands?”

Beside Mr. Tethras, Cassandra made a noise of disgust. Across from them, Lady Hawke was most _certainly_ laughing into her soup.

Soup was followed by a salad, before the second course was brought out.

“I am sorry, could you remind me of your name?” Lady Josephine asked Cole. “It seems to have slipped my mind.”

“I can be very hard to remember. My name is Cole,” he said. He nibbled at the edge of a piece of lettuce, seemingly curious at the particulars of the taste.

Lady Hawke, who had continued to throw glances at Cole throughout the evening, fixed him with another such look. “Where are you from, Cole?” she asked him, her tone of voice quite mildly. Cole met her look and cocked his head to the side.

“Here and there; I am from everywhere,” Cole said, as though it were such a simple answer. “Lavellan found me.”

“I’ve taken him in as my ward,” Lavellan added, hoping to assuage any question about why the boy was there.

Lady Hawke seemed somewhat suspicious, but before she could say anything else Cole spoke once more.

“You see glimmers and glimpses, you want to know if I am like your friend. I...don’t know? He wanted to help, but he was so angry. I don’t think we are the same. Similar, but not the same.”

Lady Hawke drew in a sharp breath, then gave a small laugh. “ _Well_. Quite a salad we have here. Is this qunari cheese? I hear they’re a risky export.”

The dinner followed a similar trajectory throughout the night; Lady Hawke was quite talkative, and paired with Mr. Tethras there was a great deal of laughter over the second course, and the third.

Lavellan was somewhat put out that she was unable to converse easily with Mr. Solas, but she supposed she knew that when she invited him to such a dinner. She was well aware that their general topics of conversation were not at all proper for such a setting. He was seated some distance from her as well, next to Cole, and she saw the two of them talk in undertones throughout the meal. She wondered at their conversation, but was glad to see that both of them seemed quite content to speak quietly with one another.

By the time dinner was completed, Lavellan had determined that things had gone very well. It was, unfortunately, after dinner that everything went spectacularly downhill.

What was uncertain, and what would always be uncertain, was who precisely started it. Lavellan had been somewhat distracted by conversation with Lady Josephine when Mr. Tethras’ voice grew loud enough to be heard throughout the room. Cassandra’s followed, her words loud and sharp.

“Oh, dear,” said Leliana from where she sat beside Lady Josephine. She leaned behind her to get a better view. “She looks _very_ angry.”

“Perhaps we should put a stop to it?” Lady Josephine looked as though she were about to rise, but Lavellan set a hand on her arm as she stood instead.

“Please, allow me. You are a guest, after all, and as the hostess I should really be the one to deal with such things.”

As she rose from her seat and walked towards where Mr. Tethras and Lady Cassandra stood, she saw that they both looked _quite_ upset. Indeed, Lady Cassandra looked as though she was about ready to overturn any nearby furniture upon Mr. Tethras’ head.

“This _entire time!_ You knew where she was, you _knew_ I was looking for her, and you said _nothing!_ You lying, scheming -”

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Hawke, who quickly stepped past Lavellan. She had not seen her approach. “Am I missing something of importance here?”

“No,” said Lady Cassandra, just as Mr. Tethras said “yes.”

“ _This_ is the person I told you about. The one who was _seeking_ you, Hawke,” said Mr. Tethras. Lady Hawke’s eyes went very wide.

“Oh! _Oh_. That explains...a lot, actually. Varric’s written quite a lot about you, Lady Pentaghast. I feel like I already know you.”

“ _What?_ ” said Lady Cassandra, just as Mr. Tethras said “Hawke, please.”

“No, _really_ ,” continued Lady Hawke with a sort of innocent charm that did not seem so innocent at all. “He’s told me _so_ much about you. Tell me, did you _really_ stab him in the book?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Tethras, just as Lady Cassandra said “the situation warranted it.”

“ _Well_ ,” said Lady Hawke. She looked quite regal in that moment, drawn to her full height, the discoloration upon the bridge of her nose appearing red beneath the light of the lamps. “The desecration of such _excellent_ literature is something that I _do_ take issue with. Why, that book was given _one_ star by a rather grumpy critic due to unbelievability, and I really can’t argue with that!”

“Thank you for the support,” Mr. Tethras said rather dryly. Lady Hawke seemed to ignore him.

“Still, as I said, I _do_ feel as though I already know you, and you do seem to want to know _me_. Now, I can assure you that Varric was acting out of a desire to protect me, which is admirable, really, but as I am here and you are here, I see no reason why we shouldn’t talk _now_. A turn or two around the room seems a good idea, doesn’t it?” She offered her arm to Lady Cassandra, who blinked almost owlishly before taking it and allowing herself to be drawn away from Mr. Tethras.

Mr. Tethras looked quite unwell for a moment, before he poured himself a glass of brandy and drained half of it.

“Well that went better than I expected,” he said. He seemed to notice that Lavellan stood before him for the first time. “I suppose you heard the whole thing?”

“Most of us did,” said Lady Lavellan, who had been trying very hard to look like she _hadn’t_ been listening in.

“Leave it to Hawke to defuse the situation so nicely.” Mr. Tethras swirled the remainder of brandy in his glass. “Hawke always had a way with people. Nine times out of ten, she could talk her way out of a situation gone to shit. And that tenth time wouldn’t work out only because something was literally on fire.”

Lavellan followed his gaze across the room, to where the two women were conversing in what appeared a civil manner. Cassandra’s arm was still through Lady Hawke’s.

She finally decided to give voice to what had been troubling her all evening. “Mr. Tethras, may I ask you why Lady Hawke is here? It is my understanding that she more or less removed herself from society after the events that took place in Kirkwall, and for good reason. It seems strange that she would suddenly appear _now_ , and using her real name.”

“Who’s to say that _Hawke_ is even her real name?” Mr. Tethras said, but then he sighed and she saw what seemed a bone weariness beneath his charm. “People get tired of hiding after a while. Hawke did her part back in Kirkwall and it took almost everything out of her. But it’s been a few years, and she’s never been one to stay out of society long. Truth be told, it was this whole Corypheus thing that got her moving again.”

Lavellan’s brow rose. “What ever do you mean?”

Mr. Tethras drank the last of his brandy. Across the room, Lady Hawke laughed at something Cassandra said. “She had an... _encounter_ with him a few years back. Nasty bit of business to do with her father’s estate. When I wrote to tell her about how he’d shown his face down here, she said she had to come down and see for herself. I’m sure she’ll want to talk with you more, once she’s done with all of this.” He waves his hand idly towards the two women.

Sure enough, not ten minutes later Lavellan found her conversation interrupted by Lady Hawke.

“Allow me to steal Miss _Lady_ Lavellan from you,” Lady Hawke said, and Lavellan found herself tugged away by her arm. Lady Hawke seemed to have little in the way of boundaries, though she did seem to have a _little_ discretion, for she when she spoke it was in a low voice as she was drawn away from the others. “I had been wishing to speak to you before, but present circumstances as they are...though if Lady Cassandra hasn’t killed Varric by now, I think he’ll be fine.”

“Is that a legitimate possibility? Killing him?” Lavellan asked, struck by the hyperbole of the comment. Lady Hawke gave a small laugh.

“Honestly, Varric’s had at least five people try to kill him since I’ve known him, though I’ve had _far_ more, and Lady Cassandra seems...slightly less likely than some of the others to _actually_ go through with it. As I said, I think he’ll be _fine_. Now. To business.”

“Mr. Tethras did tell me something of why you’d come south,” Lavellan admitted as Lady Hawke drew her to the far corner of the room. They both sat down upon the window seat, in clear view of the rest of the room but far enough that if they spoke quietly they would not be overheard. “You’ve met Lord Corypheus before?”

Lady Hawke made a most disgruntled face. “I’m afraid I’ve had that _pleasure_. Really, let us not call him _lord_ of anything. That man is as deceitful and manipulative as they come, made worse by his sense of self importance. Did Varric tell you anything of the specifics of my, _ahem_ , run-in with Corypheus?”

Lavellan was inclined to agree with Lady Hawke’s assessment of the man having a great sense of self importance. “He mentioned it had to do with your father’s...estate?”

Lady Hawke sighed. “Partially right. It _did_ have to do with my father. You see, years ago, my father and a...friend, for lack of a better word, went in together on a business venture. A mine out in the Vimmark Mountains. Not unlike my _own_ Bone Pit mine, though with considerably fewer dragons.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Lavellan was certain she had misheard.

“I meant spiders,” Lady Hawke corrected, in a tone that somehow still implied that _dragons_ was also entirely correct.

A shudder ran through Lavellan at the mention of spiders; she had _quite_ an aversion for arachnids of all sorts, and spiders most of all.

“Now, I did not learn about this venture of my father’s for quite awhile past his death, but several years ago I came across the deed to the mine and all the lands that it sat upon. My father owned half a share in the mine - the other half was owned by a man named Larius. This would not have been much of a problem, except that Mr. Larius had lost his share of the mine to - you guessed it! _Corypheus_. As a matter of settling debts, apparently. Which - again! - would not have been a problem, except that Corypheus is not at all the sort to share.”

“He wanted your half of the mine.”

“ _Exactly!_ ” Lady Hawke looked quite pleased that her story was being so well received. “He sent a slew of people to harass me until I gave him over my portion of the mine.”

“And did you?”

Lady Hawke gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, Miss-Lady-Lavellan, you are _charming!_ Of course I didn’t. I’m _very_ stubborn.” She leaned close. “I found a way to prove that those debts Mr. Larius had accrued? Had been falsely collected upon. So Corypheus had no claim upon the mine _what-so-ever_ , and the half-share of the mine was returned to Mr. Larius and his family.”

Lavellan sat back, considering all of this. It was a pretty story, and it painted a very clear picture that she could quite believe. “I don’t understand precisely why that brings you down here, Lady Hawke,” she said then.

“I came here because I very much dislike this man.” Lady Hawke’s voice had suddenly taken a turn for the serious; she sounded almost dangerous in that moment. “He did not just go after me - he went after my brother, who had connections to Mr. Larius’ other business ventures, and he attempted to manipulate a dear friend of mine to disastrous consequence. I _detest_ Corpheus, Lady Lavellan, and as he has set his sights upon you, I felt that it was only right that I offer my assistance. He hurt those I love, and _that_ is something I do not easily forgive.”

Listening to her speak then, Lady Lavellan did not doubt such a thing was absolutely true.

  
  


***

 

The rest of the evening was much less memorable, which was quite good given that two guests yelling at one another was _not_ something she wanted to happen at the first true dinner she had hosted.

Mr. Tethras and the Lady Hawke departed first - Lady Hawke took Lavellan’s hands in her own and kissed her on each cheek, promising that they would keep in touch about a certain distasteful man. Cassandra and Leliana departed not soon after, though with enough time that there would be no chance of them passing Mr. Tethras upon the road.

And then there was just Lady Josephine, who was biding her time quietly in the sitting room, a book in her hands. Cole had disappeared at some point after dinner and was nowhere to be found. And…

And then there was Mr. Solas.

He seemed to be stalling slightly upon leaving, or perhaps she simply _hoped_ that he was stalling.

“I am very sorry that we were not able to speak more tonight,” she said as he pulled on his coat.

“As am I. I find that I...quite enjoying conversing with you. It is always fascinating.” He tugged the lapels of his coat straight, though it did little for the overall sense of shabbiness.

“Fascinating? And what, pray tell, do you find so fascinating about me?”

She ought not to have said such a thing. The instant she did, he looked at her with _such_ a look.

“ _Everything_ ,” he said, and she felt that indefinable feeling in her heart once more, which, in truth, was really not indefinable at all.

Lavellan gave a small laugh even as she felt heat rise to her cheeks. “What a thing to say. But I find you quite _fascinating_ to speak with as well, Mr. Solas. But thank you, truly, for coming tonight. I was very glad for your presence.”

Again, he seemed to stall; he could have said his goodbyes then and left, and it almost seemed as though he would. But he paused there, in the doorway, looking at her for a long moment, appearing to be thinking on something.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said after almost too much silence had passed. “You will doubtless thinking me improper for asking this, but...I will be traveling soon. South, to the Dirthavaren.”

“The Dirthavaren?” She felt her heart leap in her throat at the name, for she knew of where he spoke. “So far south? Why - but, you said you had something to ask.”

“I would ask if you would like to accompany me. I have an old friend who I will be visiting, and I believe that you would like her very much, and her you, and I would greatly like to introduce you to her. And Cole as well.”

Her breath had caught in her chest when he asked her to accompany him; her heart had made a rather abrupt jolt within her ribcage. “Myself and Cole? Accompanying you?”

She saw him smile, almost softly. “It is not entirely proper, I know. But my friend cannot visit us here, and, as I said, I should like her to meet both you and Cole. She is...very like Cole, though not quite the same.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Her eyes went wide. “I - I do not think it would be all too improper for us to accompany you, Mr. Solas. I think that I would like to meet your friend very much.”

There was a genuine smile that spread broadly across his face when she said this. “I am glad. I will, of course, inform you when arrangements have been made for travel.”

“Of course,” she echoed.

It seemed, then, very likely that they would stand there for far too long, for silence fell between them for another long moment, before Mr. Solas swept a bow towards her.

“I will bid you good night, then, Lady Lavellan,” he said, and she curtseyed lightly.

“And to you, Mr. Solas,” she said, and she saw him out the front door.

When she retired back to the sitting room, to where Lady Josephine sat with her book, she did not say anything, and she was not asked as to why she smiled in such a manner. Oh, but her heart fluttered in her chest, and there was no use in denying to herself why. She found that, for all his faults, she liked Mr. Solas.

She liked him very much indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the slight delay in getting this chapter up! But here it is, finally. I've been waiting to introduce Hawke for awhile now, so here she is! As is hopefully obvious, she is patterned after a custom Hawke (just as Lavellan is patterned after my own custom Lavellan), and is for the most part a sarcastic purple Hawke. Also, just in case it wasn't as easy to catch as I hoped, both Bethany and Carver are alive in this AU!


	19. In which there is wisdom and there is pride

A draft of a letter; revised version sent shortly after:

_~~Dear~~ Miss Harding,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I was uncertain where to send this, as I knew you were to spend some time in Val Royeaux with Lady Lavellan. ~~If you’re reading this, I suppose that you’ve returned~~ How did you find it? I remember you said that you had never left the Hinterlands before, and Val Royeaux is a big change from a farming village._

_~~Me and the troops~~ ( **Edit: GRAMMAR, Krem. - Rocky** ) The troops and I are currently stationed in Gawaren. We had to take the long way through the Brecilian - you should have seen the trees there. Not as big as the trees when you go further south, but ~~pretty damn big~~ ( **Watch your fucking language! - Skinner** ) impressive. They’ve got stories here about how there used to be talking trees that lived in the deepest parts of the forest; I’d say it’s just old tales, but there are ~~some weird shit~~ strange things at the edges of the world. Talking trees wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’ve heard of, or seen._

_We’ll be here a few more weeks, at least. Some nobles concerned about the encroaching forest. Seems they take the talking trees stories to heart, so we’re here to make sure everything’s fine._

_I hope things continue to go well in Haven. All my best,_

_Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi_

  
  


***

Lady Lavellan felt as though she was in something of a daze for the next several days. It is not as though she walked around without thought, for that was not at all what this was. She attended to all of the necessary actions of each day, laughed appropriately, held all the proper discussions. She worked in the garden with Miss Ve’mal, the two of them determining where to plant various vegetables and making decisions on which flowers with which to cover the berm beside the front path.

But in the days after the dinner, Lavellan felt almost as though she were afloat, light in a way that often brought a rush of blood to her face that made her feel giddy. She would be thinking of something else entirely, and then she would remember her exchange with Mr. Solas at the end of the night.

_What is it about me that you find fascinating?_

_Everything._

She took tea with the Lady Hawke three days after the dinner, in the rooms the woman had rented for her stay in Haven. They were small compared to where Lavellan had stayed in Val Royeaux, but they were well furnished and decorated with bunches of early spring flowers.

Lady Hawke dressed in light grey, a dress that would have been entirely unremarkable save for being trimmed in red. Her thick black hair was bound up in a careless manner that somehow befitted her well. Lavellan found that her altogether impression of Lady Hawke was a seemingly carefree women who had little care for the rules of her station and who thought little about breaking them.

She found that she liked Lady Hawke quite a bit.

“You’ve got a charming town here,” Lady Hawke said as she poured their tea. “Very nice, clean mountain air. Not at all like home.”

Lavellan, who had been to Kirkwall, knew precisely what she spoke of.

“It’s a nice enough town,” she said, pouring a small measure of cream into her tea. “I find I like the inhabitants most of all.”

“It is generally the people that make a place worth living,” Lady Hawke agreed. She settled back in her chair, balancing her teacup delicately before her. “You’re a Marcher originally? Varric said something to that effect in his letters. Wycome, right?”

“Yes. I did pass through Kirkwall a few times over the years. It was...Kirkwall,” she finished rather weakly, for she could not think of a kind way to describe a city that had smelled strongly of smoke and refuse and had been in a state of political upheaval for as long as anyone could remember.

Lady Hawke, to her surprise, laughed. “That it is. Believe me, I’ve tried to explain why I love Kirkwall so much, and even my sister looks at me as though I’ve declared that blood magic is the noblest of disciplines! But it is - _was_ , I suppose I should say - home. You’re from the dalish clan that used to be near Wycome, then? Kirkwall had it’s own dalish presence, though things grew rather... _strained_.”

“The Sabrae clan,” Lavellan said, glad to shift the topic even slightly from talk of her own. “We met with them on occasion, and Mr. Tethras’ book made mention of a Miss Merrill quite frequently.”

A brilliant smile grew upon Lady Hawke’s face. “Oh, _Merrill_. You know - I shouldn’t tell you this, but I feel I can trust you with positively _anything_ \- well, not anything, that was hyperbole, but - did you ever read _The Champion of Kirkwall?_ The paper, not Varric’s book.” Lavellan nodded slowly. “Excellent! If you recall the column that ran monthly, the one written by _Daisy_ on elvhen interests and history? _That_ was Merrill.”

Lavellan’s eyes went wide. She had wondered, given how Miss Merrill had been described in the book, but there had been Mr. Fenris as well, and several other people vaguely described as elvhen throughout the story. “She did a fantastic job,” she said, quite earnestly. “Is she still in Kirkwall, or…?”

Lady Hawke sighed, somewhat sadly. “Occasionally, as we all are. I still own the estate - and the Bone Pit, of course. Merrill spent some time working with the council on - again - elvhen interests, but she’s gone to Orlais, as I recall. Research, I believe. We keep in touch. _Now_ ,” Lady Hawke leaned forward and set down her untouched cup of tea, leaning far too heavily upon the table, “I would _love_ to continue to discuss my friends, for they are the greatest source of joy in my life, but I have two very important things to discuss with you. The second, of course, is about Corypheus and how we can possibly ruin him, and the _first_ is to ask why you’re positively _beaming_.”

Lavellan ought not to have been surprised that she noticed, even being someone who had only met her once before.

“It’s...nothing,” Lavellan said. “I think Corypheus is a more pressing issue.”

“I think he can wait while we gossip. In fact, I _delight_ in the idea of him having to wait for anything. Is it a suitor? _Oh_ , it’s a suitor, isn’t it? You must have _dozens_ of them, I know I did when I was granted title in Kirkwall, and you’re _quite_ pretty and very rich. I do hope that you don’t have your heart set upon Varric, though, because his heart is already given elsewhere.”

“It’s not Mr. Tethras,” Lavellan said, and Lady Hawke looked relieved at that. “Really, I don’t see why -”

“Lady Cassandra, then? Though I got the impression that she may have been involved with someone - she did exchange several looks with Lady Montilyet over dessert. Perhaps it is someone I haven’t met yet at all? Or - that severe, quiet man? What was his name - Solus, Solace - Mr. Solas?”

“He’s not quite so severe as you are imagining.” As she spoke, Lady Hawke’s eyes went quite wide, and she realized that she was, in fact, a terrible gossip.

“ _Oh!_ I _knew_ it must have been someone at your dinner party! Has he -” she leaned even closer, nearly upsetting her tea, “ - made you an _offer?_ ”

“ _No!_ ” she exclaimed, perhaps too hastily. “No, nothing like that! He’s not a suitor, he’s just...a dear friend.”

Lady Hawke did not look as though she believed her.

“Well, if your _dear friend_ is the reason you have been smiling so much, then he must be a good friend indeed!”

Lavellan did not feel up to discussing the general intricacies of her friendship with Mr. Solas. She picked up her tea, sipping at it carefully. “He is. Now, about Corypheus…”

“Yes, yes, straight on to business then!” Lady Hawke picked up her own tea, the motion too violent and the tea threatening to spill over the edge. “Now, I have a number of contacts throughout Thedas who will very likely help me in this, but I _did_ want to let you know, as you will be in the center of all of this. First, we will have to make your claim to everything Corypheus wants clear beyond a shred of doubt, and then, simultaneously, we must do _all_ that we can to discredit him…”

  
  


***

  
  


It was several more days past before she was informed, by letter, that Mr. Solas was planning to depart for the far south the following Sunday. It was just enough notice to allow her to pack for both herself and Cole and to put all of her affairs in order for yet another trip outside of Haven. She suspected that they might be gone for some time, given the distance to the Dirthavaren and how long they would likely stay.

She had insisted that they take her carriage to Sahrnia, where they would then board the train that would take them further south, and as her luggage was loaded she felt a peculiar, familiar anxiety. Her worries were of two distinct minds in this venture - the first, of course, being that she was traveling with Mr. Solas and all of the frustration, emotion, and problems that went along with that. The second...well.

The second was that she was to visit the Dirthavaren, and that sent such a fluttering through her heart and up her throat that she thought she would choke upon the feeling.

South and even further south - they took the carriage to Sahrnia, the three of them, and from there they boarded onto the train. The high mountains fell away into sloping hills and wide expanses of forest.

It was a several day journey into the southern reaches of the Dales, with one transfer to another train, and they spoke a little on the way. When they were all safely away in the train car, conversation emerged more than when they were in the carriage, Cole offering calm questions and small observations to Mr. Solas.

There was a question of her own which she gave voice to upon the second day of travel.

“You called it the Dirthavaren,” she said, curiosity thick in her voice. “Most who are not dalish would not call it by that name.”

“It was not only the dalish who called it such,” said Mr. Solas, and he did not elaborate on that further.

As the train plunged into the verdant forests of the Dales, she could not help but press herself as close to the window as she dared, looking out into what had once, hundreds of years ago, been her homeland. The trees were so tall and so thick that she could not see far at all, though occasionally she caught sight of brightly painted chateaus, and, even more rarely, weathered white stone ruins.

When the forest broke, it was to sweeping plains and gently rolling hills dotted with large stony protrusions made softer by time. The land here was very green, as the forests had been, still soaked with snowmelt, the plant life flourishing in the early spring. There were less of the ferns and large leafed plants of the forest, instead low scrubby shrubs and wildflowers strewn between stretches of wheat. She saw quaint, brightly colored houses sprawled across the countryside, a small town. It was here that the train line came to an end, and it was here that they stopped, emerging from the train into the bright sunlight of midday.

“Is it far to where your friend is?” she asked Mr. Solas as they stood upon the platform waiting for their luggage. Mr. Solas did not have much by way of belongings, and Cole had even less. Beside them, Lady Lavellan felt quite over encumbered, but as no one made any comment upon such things, she decided not to dwell too long upon it.

“It is some distance past the border of the town,” he replied. He had one bag, which he had carried on to the train, and one canvas wrapped in heavy brown paper. “It is not so far a walk, if you do not mind, though I suggest having your luggage brought to where you will be staying first.”

Lavellan, who had two bags, thought this a quite good idea. She had arranged for accommodations within the small town, for Mr. Solas had explained that while his friend sought to be a good host, it was not an ideal place for someone to stay.

It did not take long at all for them to arrange for their bags to be delivered, though Solas kept his.

The town was cheerily Orlesian, simpler than Val Royeaux yet still filled with bright colors and elegant drapery. The houses were painted in blues and reds and yellows, most trimmed in white with slate roofs. In this first blush of spring, there were flowers adorning everything in bright bursts of purples and reds and whites.

All of this they left behind, taking a dusty road out into the fields beyond.

Mr. Solas had quite underestimated the distance, or else Lavellan was not as used to long walks as she once had been, for it took some time for them to reach their destination. Her arm ached slightly from carrying her bag, but again she did not complain, and so it was that the three of them walked perhaps a mile and a half past the last of the Orlesian houses, out to where the river ran close and she could more clearly see the mountains that began to rise just beyond it.

They came to a house, perched upon the edge of the river. Indeed, it was so close to the river that Lavellan wondered how it had not been washed away when the river was at it’s highest. Still, there was a healthy distance between it and the edge of the bank, and the river seemed not to touch it, even swollen as it was with snowmelt.

It was an old house, three stories tall, with an odd, squat look to the left side. It looked as though it had once been a house painted white, but there was an ashy look to it now, as though years and years of dust sat upon it. The trim had been green, she saw as they drew closer, but had faded so much it looked almost gray. She could see no lights within the window.

There was something all together eerie about the house. It reminded her of old moth-eaten lace; of paper turned to yellow and must by age. Like bleached fingerbones stretching up from the ground as though they could embrace the sky.

If there was ever a house which could be considered haunted, it would be this one.

Mr. Solas tapped lightly on the door, but when there was no answer he simply opened it himself. “You may come in,” he said to both of them, holding the door open. “I am certain that we will find my friend within, though she may not have heard us arrive.”

Inside seemed even stranger than outside. The air smelled of must and dust, old paper and stone, and something sharp behind it all. It was dark, not a single light lit, and each lighting fixture was set with candles that had long since burned away to only wax upon heavy wrought iron.

They followed Mr. Solas as he walked down the long hall that stretched towards the back of the house. He seemed to have no trouble in the dark, and in truth neither did Lavellan. Still, he raised a hand as the walked where there was no light from the windows, the small stubs of candles suddenly flickering to light. It was more magic than she had ever seen him perform before, and she found herself glancing more than once at the eerie blue flames that danced where a wick should have been.

The ceiling of the house was very tall, and with the sudden light she could see that there were more than a few cobwebs strung between the rafters. Small dark things scurried into the corners, away from the flare of light.

Lavellan could not help but shiver as she spied the spiders. They were the most unsettling thing within the whole of the house.

Mr. Solas turned sharply to the left as they came to the end of the hall, and when he opened a door there Lavellan was suddenly struck by how bright it had become. It was as though all the light that should have been within the rest of the house was here instead.

“ _Oh_ ,” Lavellan breathed as she stepped past Mr. Solas, for the door had opened into a room made almost entirely of glass.

It was as though there was a small forest contained with this odd little house; potted plants lined the walls, some tall with leaves that stretched up to the ceiling, others smaller, sitting upon rows of wooden tables. Here she smelled earth and life, dew drops in the air from the moisture in the air.

Mr. Solas spoke something then, something which Lavellan wished dearly that she could fully understand. She caught only a few words, spoken loudly enough to carry to the entirety of the room - _falon_ , he said. _Ma falon_ , _my friend_.

For a moment, there was silence only broken by the soft sounds of insects that must live within the greenhouse room. And then a brilliant, bright voice sounded, words that Lavellan could just barely understand, spoken in the same, dear language that Lavellan only spoke fragments of herself.

“ _Solas!_ ” A woman - or, Lavellan supposed, a spirit wearing the form of a woman - stood up from behind one of the tables of plants, dusting her hands upon a smock she wore over her dress. She was very tall and slim, almost like one of the saplings that lined the walls. Lavellan could not quite place her age, for she seemed both very old and very young both at once. Her skin was dark and her hair seemed to be as well, until she turned her head and the sunlight through the glass turned what had before seemed streaks of grey into silver. She thought there were lines upon her face, at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but then she blinked and it was as though they were no longer there.

“I was wondering when you would come next!” the woman said then, speaking now in words they could all understand. She stepped around the table of plants and Mr. Solas stepped to meet her; she took his hands in hers, and though Lavellan could only see him in profile, there was something infinitely soft about Mr. Solas’ expression.

“Wisdom, I have someone I would like you to meet,” he said, and he turned out so as to gesture towards her. “This is Lady Lavellan of Skyhold. Lady Lavellan, I would like you to meet Miss Wisdom. She is a dear, old friend of mine.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Miss Wisdom said, and she dropped Mr. Solas’ hands to near-glide over to her. “ _Oh_. _You_ are Lavellan? Solas has told me so much about you!”

“He has?” Her eyes found his as Miss Wisdom took her hands in her own. “Really, I’m not much to speak of.”

“But you are,” said Miss Wisdom. Her hands were dry and rough, her fingertips calloused. She smelled of earth and living things, like the room around them, with that same sharpness hidden behind. Like the crack of lightning when no rain has fallen. “Your blood is so very old, but you are so very young, and it seems a contradiction yet it is not. Your mother was a Lavellan too, and her mother before her, back until they were not named Lavellan, but the blood is all the same. Come, would you like to see my blood lotus?”

The subject change seemed too abrupt; blood and bloodlines and blood lotus.

“I have another for you to meet, Wisdom,” said Mr. Solas, and Miss Wisdom’s green, _green_ eyes focused past Lavellan’s shoulder, then went wide.

“Oh! You were hiding!” She released Lavellan’s hands and moved to where Cole stood half hidden by shadow. “You’re…”

A look of confusion grew upon her face. She did not reach for Cole’s hands, as she had for the others.

Cole’s eyes were very wide beneath the hair that still always hung low over his brow. “You are wisdom, but you are confused. You don’t know what I am.”

“Wisdom does not mean knowing everything,” Miss Wisdom said softly. “To believe I knew all would be pride. I know that you did not slip through the veil here, which means you are not quite like me. But I do not know what exactly you are. You do not know, either.”

“No,” said Cole, his head tipped down so his eyes were completely obscured by his fair hair. “I know that I want to help, but I don’t know what I am.”

It was then that Miss Wisdom reached out to him, though she still did not take his hands. To Lavellan’s surprise, she pulled Cole into a hug. The boy did not seem as surprised; he settled his head upon Miss Wisdom’s shoulder, his arms around her back.

“It may be that we do not know precisely what you are, but we are alike enough that I can say I am glad to meet you,” said Miss Wisdom quietly. “It has been many years since I have seen another so like myself.”

Lavellan looked to Mr. Solas then, as she understood further why he had brought them here. It was a small smile that formed upon her lips, an unspoken _thank you_.

It was a soft smile that he gave to her in return.

“Now, I _do_ wish to you show you my plants,” Miss Wisdom said as she stepped back from Cole. She swept back towards the table she had been behind. “And my black lotus! Solas, I did tell you that it had been growing well, and I have had no one to show such wondrous things to! Lady Lavellan, you simply _must_ see it.” She caught her hand within her own and tugged her around the table, towards to back of the large greenhouse.

It was there that Lavellan saw a long basin of water, perhaps a foot and a half deep at most. The left-most side was full of rushes, but in the rest of it she saw the wide flat leaves of lotus resting upon the surface of the water, the flowers for the most part only small baubles that had not yet opened. Miss Wisdom drew Lavellan to the side of the basin and gestured towards a lotus plant whose leaves were darker than the others.

“This is my black lotus,” Miss Wisdom said with evident delight. “I wasn’t certain it would grow here. Sometimes, the things that Mr. Solas brings me do not take root, and a lotus plant can sometimes be difficult to keep alive.”

“It’s quite pretty,” Lavellan said, for the leaves were - dark green, veined in even darker tones.

“It will bloom soon, I think.” Miss Wisdom indicated one of the small, closed blossoms, nestled in among the leaves. “But you see, sometimes things can unexpectedly take root, and it’s such a delight when they bloom, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Solas brings you plants?” Lavellan asked, glancing over to where he stood, viewing the blood lotus alongside them.

“I do,” he said. “It is good to have someone with which to share such things with.”

“And books and letters and secrets,” Miss Wisdom said. “Little things that no one else does. What did you bring me this time, _ma solas?_ ”

“I will show you later, Wisdom,” he assured her, and Lavellan remembered the wrapped canvas he had carried. “For now, I am glad to see what you have done with your plants.”

“Than you will see them! Oh, Solas, such things have grown here!” Miss Wisdom was so bright, her eyes such a shocking green that seemed to gleam as the light caught within them. “I will show you everything I have accomplished here.”

*

They stayed until the sun began it’s descent, and then Lavellan and Mr. Solas said their goodbyes for the evening, though Cole stayed behind.

“I am a discourteous host,” Miss Wisdom said from just within the threshold of the house. “I do not eat, and so for you to stay here would be unwise. Plants I can feed, but you are no plant, nor an insect that could feed upon what I grow here. Come back in the morning and we will speak more. I _do_ so wish for us to become friends.”

“I would like for that as well,” Lady Lavellan said.

As it was only early spring, it was still cool as she and Mr. Solas walked back down the road towards the small Orlesian town.

“Thank you,” she said after a few minutes of silence.

“For what?” He seemed somewhat confused, a furrow growing between his brows.

“For bringing us to see Miss Wisdom,” she told him. “I hope that I read her correctly, but she seemed pleased to see us as well.”

“She does.” Mr. Solas clasped his hands behind his back; he had left his bag with Miss Wisdom, and it seemed as though all he had brought were things for her. “You may have surmised it already, but she cannot leave that place.”

She had thought as much, considering what she had learned previously about spirits. “You said that spirits appear where the veil is thin, and that Cole is unusual in that he can leave such areas by himself. Could Miss Wisdom not leave if she were to leave with...someone else?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Solas. The furrow between his brows deepened slightly. “But spirits do not often endure as they are once in such contact with mortals. There is too much which may influence them and drive them from their purpose.”

“She would become a demon.”

“She could.”

Lavellan set her teeth to her bottom lip in thought. She thought of the slim line between a spirit and a demon, and she thought, again, of the envy demon that had hidden in her heart and left Skyhold Manor in such a way.

“So you visit her here, because she cannot leave.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, at his profile lit by the sun as it began to fall towards the horizon. “How long have you known her?”

“All my life,” he said, and it seemed, somehow, almost like a confession, though she did not know why.

***

The next day found her once more in Miss Wisdom’s greenhouse, surrounded by a large assortment of pots. Lavellan sat across from Miss Wisdom, the two of them each with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. There was, as was wont to happen in such a situation, dirt and plant clippings all around them.

Not long before, they had been sitting in in Miss Wisdom’s rather unkempt parlor, drinking something that was supposed to be tea.

“I found it in the cupboard,” Miss Wisdom had said as she poured something that _looked_ like tea, but smelled rather like the rest of the house did. “Mr. Solas brought it here some time ago, though I have few opportunities to entertain guests.”

Mr. Solas had, rather pointedly, not touched his teacup. Miss Wisdom had laughed at him and, rather than grow upset, let him pour the entirety of tea that had gone quite wrong out into the river.

Now, however, Miss Wisdom had drawn Lavellan away from the other two and insisted that they spend some time speaking, all while repotting plants.

It was quite calming to sit there with the spirit who looked like a women, small terracotta pots arranged around them, new ones stacked together that were slowly being filled. Miss Wisdom had instructed her to remove the plants from the smaller pots, after which she shook the dirt from the roots and gently untangled them before passing them to the spirit to be repotted. In the worst of the cases, where the roots had woven themselves into small, hard tangles, Miss Wisdom took a knife and carefully cut them into fourths.

Now, Miss Wisdom had no gloves to speak of within her greenhouse, and so they worked with their hands bare. Lavellan wondered at this, but she had begun to wonder - how much of Miss Wisdom was truly tangible? Was she a spirit who wore the shape of a woman, created of magic and dreams, her clothing as immaterial as she truly was?

It was of no matter, however, that she had no gloves to wear - Lavellan did not mind the feel of dirt between her fingers. However, without gloves, the ring which was ever present upon her finger grew dirtier and dirtier. After repotting a small plant that seemed like it would be more at home in the Free Marches than so far south, she paused to clean dirt from it with her thumb”

“Oh! Is that…?” Miss Wisdom leaned forward as light caught in the emerald. As she peered at it, even covered in dirt as it was, the emerald seemed as green as her eyes. “Now that is something very old. Very, _very_ old. Not as old as I am, but still quite old. May I see it?”

“You will have to see my hand as well, for I cannot remove it,” Lavellan said, allowing Miss Wisdom to take her hand in her own.

The day before, when Miss Wisdom had taken her hands, Lavellan had still been wearing her riding gloves. Now, however, the spirit touched her bare skin, and she felt -

Strange and electric, insubstantial like a dream or a breath of air. She seemed less real than anything else, and yet entirely there, like a small hole in the world or perhaps something more real than everything else at the same time. She felt the the calm before the infinite drop into the abyss, daunting and terrible and so familiar.

“Miss Wisdom,” Lavellan said, and she felt as though all the breath had been sucked from her lungs. “What _are_ you?”

Miss Wisdom looked up at her with those eyes that were so very green. No, Lavellan thought. Not _Miss_ Wisdom. Simply _Wisdom_.

“Solas told you I was a spirit,” said Wisdom, her finger still caged around her hand. “But that is an inadequate way to try to summarize my being. I am what is left over from a dream, I what once was when magic breathed in everything. I am a shade of memory and thought, the ability to know and to think and to say. I am not at all like Cole, and yet he is far realer than I am, wouldn’t you say?”

Lavellan wet her lips with her tongue. Her mouth had gone dry. “You seem very real to me,” she said. The band of metal around her finger burned.

And then Wisdom released her hand, and she was Miss Wisdom once more, as though she had never been anything more or less. “Would that more people thought so,” she said, her fingers that were caked in dirt falling to her lap. “So long ago, there was more magic in this world. I was there, when what I am was no different than a breath of wind or the turn of the ocean. But we become less and less as magic fades, until it is only here, in this place, that I can be.”

“So you are...wisdom,” Lavellan said, scrabbling to find some semblance of understanding, though she felt as though, from that single moment before, she _knew_. “Knowledge.”

“You are thinking too simply,” said Miss Wisdom. “Defining me too narrowly. Ask _questions_. What is _wisdom_? Is it knowledge? No, not only. You can have knowledge without wisdom, wisdom without knowledge. Does wisdom come with age? Is it innate? Is it something fleeting that fools think they have grasped, only to find that what they think is wisdom is only prejudice and self importance? How thin is the line between wisdom and pride, and can you have one without the other? You must ask these questions, and more. Have you asked yourself, Lady Lavellan?”

“Which question?”

Miss Wisdom leaned close. The electric hum of magic crackled against her skin. “You must ask yourself, Lady Lavellan, how a magical ring of ancient elvhen design comes to be owned by the women of the Divine family, and why it now rests upon _your_ hand.”

Lavellan sat back, her spine straight. She held up her hand before her, turning the ring in the light.

“That is the question you were seeking to give voice to,” Miss Wisdom said. “Though you have so _many_ questions. But that one, oh, that one is important. Three pieces that you have to unravel.”

“Do you know the answer?” she asked, and Miss Wisdom laughed.

“Oh, no. I simply know the value of that question. Wisdom is not always knowing the answer, but it is deciding what to do with what you already know.”

 


	20. In which all is new and faded and for her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title should tell you something of what happens in this chapter. Warning for character death.

 

The third day since arriving at Miss Wisdom’s home, Lady Lavellan decided that she wished to explore the Dirthavaren.

“Really, it would be a shame to travel all this way here and see nothing more than one Orlesian town,” she said as she tied her bonnet over her hair, securing it with an inexpertly tied ribbon. “I thought I might walk out along the river and see where it leads.”

“You want to see if it matches hope,” said Cole, who sat crosslegged upon one of the tables within the greenhouse. Miss Wisdom was piling clippings from her plants into his lap. “Bright and glittering, you dreamed of wide plains and forests so deep they would swallow you whole, things from stories about when the world was different. You want to know if the land sings to you, or if it’s nothing more than a melody you’ve invented to fill a hole.”

“You might find some of your people here,” said Miss Wisdom as she took her pruning shears to a shrub of crystal grace which seemed to be bursting from its pot. “They passed by on the road several weeks ago, but where they went I do not know. They gave this house a wide berth; they are wary, I think, just as those in the town are. They do not know what it is that I am, but they know that something is strange here. Here, put this into your bonnet, it will look quite dashing.”

She held out a crystal grace blossom, which Lavellan took from her delicately. The translucent petals sat within her fingers, delicate and bell-like.

“Perhaps they settled somewhere nearby,” she said, reaching up to untie the bow she had so recently created.

“I heard tell of a clan along the river when we arrive in town,” Mr. Solas said. “They are camped out upon the tributary that leads into the river. Here, allow me.” It was then that he did something quite shocking, taking the blossom from her and reaching up to secure it upon the brim of her bonnet, the stem tucked beneath the ribbon.

Lavellan went quite still, for he was suddenly quite near. She felt quite silly indeed, for her heart made a small leap. She wondered if he could hear it, so close was he.

“Thank you,” she said when he stepped back. “Will you come with me? And you, Cole, will you come or will you stay here with Miss Wisdom?”

Cole looked up from playing with the bits of leaves and stalks that Miss Wisdom continued to place in his lap. “I will stay here,” he said softly. “But there should be wolves on the plains; Solas, you should go with her.”

Miss Wisdom gave a small, breathy laugh. Lavellan looked towards Mr. Solas, who’s face had gone rather still.

“I will do well enough on my own, if you don’t wish to go,” she said, though she felt a stab of disappointment. “I have no great fear of wolves; if it were spiders, however, it would be an entirely different story!”

“Wolves are often misunderstood,” Miss Wisdom said. She looked the crystal grace plant over with a careful eye. “They are a critical to the ecology of a land which they are native to. If removed, the entire thing falls out of balance. You should be wary of wolves in packs, Lady Lavellan, though alone wolf will do you no harm.”

Mr. Solas cleared his throat. “If we are to explore the land, then perhaps we should leave presently.”

“I agree,” said Lavellan. She touched her fingers briefly to her bonnet, feeling the flower there. “We will see you both this evening?”

“Probably,” said Cole, deftly plucking leaves from a pruned branch.

Now it was a bright morning and the sky was exceptionally clear. As they left Miss Wisdom’s house, Lavellan felt as though her body had become buoyant. She looked out over the plains and hills that spread away from them and it seemed as though her heart jumped and leapt at the sight.

In those early days of spring, the small shrubby brush that covered the land was flush and green. The grass, too, was green, and the wildflowers were strewn across the plains like little starbursts of color. And here and there the plains were broken by rises of rock, swellings of the land.

“Come, Mr. Solas, let us see what we can find!” she said, delighted to explore.

Miss Wisdom’s house was set beside a branching in the river, where a tributary flowed down from the mountains. There was a narrow footbridge there, one which Lavellan chose to take. It would leave them farther from the small orlesian town, and once they had crossed the road seemed to dwindle away into no more than a poorly tread path. The wild sweep of the plains lay before them.

They walked for some time in a companionable silence before Lavellan spoke.

“I’ve wanted to come here since as long as I can remember,” Lavellan said to Mr. Solas, an admission of the feelings that has been building with her chest since arriving here several days before. “Perhaps it was just a silly notion of a girl told too many stories, but I always thought of it as home. Several centuries removed, perhaps, but home. I never thought I would be given a chance to see this.”

“And what impression does it leave?” he asked her, and she thought that he sounded almost wary in how he spoke, as though there was more he wished to say.

“Oh, I don’t know yet! I haven’t seen enough. Though I can say there are _far_ too many Orlesians!”

There was a rocky rise to her right, and she increased her pace to reach it quickly. She caught the skirts of her dress in her hand and used the other to balance herself; it was something of a climb, but when she looked back she saw that Mr. Solas waited at the base.

“Come now, Mr. Solas,” she teased, paused there upon the side of the hill, feet caught securely upon the rocks and stone. “Don’t tell me that you do not climb!”

He looked up at her and she heard him give one of his low laughs. “Not recently,” he said. “And not here. Do you wish me to follow you?”

“Of course, Mr. Solas! Think of the sight that we will see from the top!”

And so she climbed and he followed. Occasionally, she would knock a stone loose and hear it skitter down the hill behind her. She quite hoped that she did not send any falling upon Mr. Solas’ head.

At the top of the rise, large stones rose free of the earth, covered in moss and lichen. She scrabbled up upon them, making certain that the moss was not so slick as to send her falling to her death. She made her way to the highest point that she could, and from there she looked out upon the land.

Her breath caught in her chest; she lost it as surely as is the wind had stolen it from her lips, from her lungs.

“Oh, Mr. Solas,” she said. “You simply _must_ see this.”

He came up beside her as she shaded her eyes with a hand, for the sun was bright. The entire world was green and golden and blue; the river ran away like liquid silver, cutting through the land. To the south beyond she saw the dark expanse of the forest as it began to grown, wild and foreboding even from here. To her right she saw mountains past the river, all turned to grey by distance. The tallest peak was carved, a monstrous creature formed of stone and the earth.

“Well,” she remarked as she looked up at it. “Cole did say there were wolves upon the plains.”

Mr. Solas laughed. It was a strange laugh, for it did not sound particularly humorous to her ears. “You will find more remnants of such things here,” he told her, following her gaze to look up at the great stone wolf carved into the mountain. “Our people filled this land with many things in ages past.”

Her eyebrows rose sharply as he said _our people_ , for he had never before phrased such a thing. “I find it strange that they would carve a great wolf upon the mountainside,” she said.

“Are there no references to wolves in your people’s lore?”

She felt even more confused at that. _Our_ people, _your_ people - such a switch, and so fast. His tone seemed purposefully even as well, almost wary, certainly tense; she thought that they danced upon dangerous topics once more, like they had in the tea room so many months ago.

“Of course there are references to wolves in our lore,” she said, watching him carefully from the corner of her eye. His face in profile, the sun upon his lightly freckled skin. “Both good and bad. We have old stories that include them, myths and tales. And I know that they were the emblem of the Lord Fen’harel, in the time before the house of Arlathan fell.”

“And yet you say that it is strange to see such a thing here.” Again, the careful speech that carried such an undercurrent of tension. Oh, but she could see the danger here; it seemed quite clear to her.

Here was a moment where she had a branching of choices. She could back away from this topic, try to forget that argument from their early meetings and simply remember the feel of his hand on her waist as they danced and the way her heart fluttered when he smiled at her. She could continue in blissful ignorance, never again mentioning topics of her people and the past that they only partially remembered.

She did not think she would be very happy if she did such a thing.

“I find it strange because of how wolves are regarded in our stories,” she said, quite carefully. “They have not always been portrayed in a such a positive light as to be carved into a mountain in such a way.”

“You speak of Fen’harel, surely.”

She nodded slowly. “Our lore tells how one of the sons of the house of Arlathan is the one responsible for the first loss of our lands,” she said, and she saw how his back straightened, how a muscle jumped in his jaw. Perhaps he thought he was subtle, but she saw it plainly. “He tricked the other nobles of his family in a bid for power and land, and in doing so weakened the house of Arlathan so that when Tevinter came they were able to take everything.”

“Of course the dalish would get such a thing so very wrong,” he said, and there was bitterness in his voice. “The fall of Arlathan was nothing so simple as the folly of one man. The ignorance of the dalish continues to astound me.”

“We spoke of this before,” she said softly, for while the bitter tone he took when speaking of the dalish stung, she did not wish to fight. “We have so little knowledge left; our records were purged when Tevinter took the land, and again when the Dales were stolen. What we know is constructed from stories told and retold over hundreds of years, until history becomes story and myth, sometimes no more than a morality tale spoken as fact. There is so little for us to recover of what we were in the time of Lord Shartan when the Dales were ours, and even less of when Arlathan rules this continent.”

Mr. Solas released a long breath. “You are right, of course. I apologize.”

Lavellan chewed upon her bottom lip then, staring out at the wolf and not looking at the man at her side. Words sat upon the tip of her tongue, begging to be spoken. So she did.

“Here is what I meant by it being strange to see a wolf carved into a mountain with such reverence,” she began, as the mountain towered before them and the sky and the plains and the river spread below. “If those who lived before us placed such reverence upon a symbol as to form a mountain in its image, then perhaps it was not such a negative thing then. How old do you suppose that carving is? It does not look so weathered as to come from the time of Arlathan - look at how clearly it is defined, even from here! Perhaps it was created during the time of Shartan, which would suggest that the image of a great wolf looking out over the People was not such terrible thing at the time.”

Mr. Solas had turned to look at her. Upon his face was an expression that seemed almost...bewildered.

“You suggest that it is a sign of your stories changing over time.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she said. “But we have no way of knowing the truth of what such things meant, Mr. Solas. We have our stories, and we hold dear to them, for if we lose them then we lose what little we have left of our past. And it is important that we have something, whether it is the exact truth of what things were or simply something passed down so many times that the message of it is no longer correct.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, spurred by the anxiety of all that she had said. But the bitterness had melted from his face; his expression seemed now soft and confused and - and he looked at her as though -

“So often you surprise me,” he said. “You are not what I expected.”

She smiled at him, a sense of relief settling in her chest. “Not everything is what you would expect, Mr. Solas.”

Standing there, upon the plains of the Dirthavaren, Mr. Solas looked at her, and she looked at him, and his expression was such that it sent her heart racing. She felt that look in her cheekbones, in her fingers, in her heart.

She wanted, very much.

But she turned, away from him and away from the towering mountain that stood before them. “Perhaps we should explore more; there is so much more here that we have not seen!”

In quiet acquiescence, he nodded, and the two of them began their descent down the rocks they had so recently scaled. Lavellan found it significantly more treacherous, for the downward motion of movement made it far easier to slip and her skirts were something of a hindrance. They found that the opposite side of formation provided a safer route, so they climbed up over the very top of the rise to reach the easier descent.

It was as Mr. Solas helped her over the highest point of the rise that Lavellan saw them; her gaze had slipped out over the smaller river that connected to the larger one, and just past another rocky knoll she saw crimson sails reaching up towards the sky.

Her eyes went very large indeed and a great smile bloomed upon her lips. “ _Oh!_ Look there, Mr. Solas! Miss Wisdom did say that she thought there to be a dalish clan out here, and it seems she was quite right!” She slipped down over the rise, feet slipping only slightly upon loose dirt and gravel.

“Wisdom is generally well informed, even if she cannot leave her home,” he said, and she saw him follow where her gaze had been before he began to carefully pick his way down towards stable ground. “Do you have any knowledge of which clan is in this area?”

Lavellan followed his path downward, finding that he had, indeed, selected a route of a relatively safe nature. “No. Our people move around often, though last I heard the Ralaferin clan was the closest to here. If this is them, I cannot say.”

They descended quickly, though they found a drop of several feet at the bottom. Mr. Solas took it with little trouble, simply jumping down, but Lavellan was quite wary at how her skirts constricted her movement.

“This seems a problem,” she said, and she looked for another way down. Seeing none, she sat down at the edge, readying herself to jump. She was not looking forward to the jolt it would surely send through her ankles and legs when she landed.

But Mr. Solas reached up and caught her by the waist; she felt a rushing sensation as she half-jumped, was half-lifted down. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, and when her feet came to touch the ground she found that his hands stayed upon her waist.

She felt a flush of blood within her cheeks as she looked up at him, and she marveled at the pink that tinged the tips of his ears.

“I suppose that was a good remedy,” she said.

“Often times there is a straightforward answer to such a thing,” he said. His hands still lingered upon her waist.

And then the moment ended; his hands fell back to his sides and she lifted hers from his chest. She felts such a furious blush upon her cheeks.

He coughed. “Perhaps we should -”

“Yes, I think that would do well. Continue. Yes.” Her words came quite hastily, all too mixed up.

They continued on then, in relative silence, finding their way back to the tributary that wound up towards the hills. And this they followed for a short time, until the river turned and they saw all the more clearly the vibrant banners and sails of the dalish Aravels.

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t wish to,” she said softly then, though her heart jumped when he gave her a speculative look.

“I do wish to accompany you. If I did not, I would have insisted Cole join you instead. It seemed obvious even this morning what you meant to accomplish in exploring the Dirth.”

Unspoken between them lay a truth - she was exceptionally nervous about bringing him to meet any clan of dalish, due to the bad blood he obviously felt towards them. There was a second truth which she did not give voice to, which had nothing at all to do with him and everything to do with herself, for she wondered how she would be received now that she wore clothes finer than any dalish she had ever known, now that she had been raised so high in society through sheer luck that she still couldn’t fully fathom.

And there was a third truth that she did not even wish to think of herself.

But Lavellan was not the sort to back down, and it had been so long since she had been among any of her people. Perhaps the clan upon the Dirthavaren was different from her own - such a thing happened quite often, for the centuries had drawn all of the dalish apart until each clan held their own particular variations on tales, on customs, on how to interact with those outside the People.

As they neared, she saw the first of the halla. In fact, she smelled them before she saw them, and it filled her with a great comfort, for the halla spoke of home to her. The first that she saw stood slender and tall upon the riverbank, raising it’s head from where it drank when it spied them. She saw it’s ears flicker as it looked towards them, it’s delicately antlered head so alert upon their approach. It did not move, even as they came closer, and as Lavellan neared she raised her hand, palm flat, for the halla to smell.

It stepped forward upon its long legs, and it lowered its muzzle to her hand. She felt the whuffing of its breath upon her skin. This close, she saw how ornate the carvings upon its antlers were, for within the spirals she saw delicate etchings of a huntress pursuing a wolf, a bow drawn to her cheek.

The halla then lifted it’s head, looked to Mr. Solas, and snorted dismissively.

“It appears that she doesn’t like you,” Lavellan said with a laugh. Mr. Solas scowled.

There was movement from further down the bank - she looked and saw a man walking towards them, looking quite suspicious, tensed like the bow etched into the halla’s antlers. She dropped her hand and stood still, waiting for him to draw close enough to see the pointed tips of their ears.

“Andaran ati'shan, lethallin,” she said, and the young man stopped short, surprise flickering upon his brow.

“Andaran ati'shan,” he responded, looking between the two of them. “Forgive me, but I mistook you for shemlen from a distance.”

“It is of no matter,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “I had heard there were some of our people upon the plains.”

He looked at her again, that strange expression still upon his face, and she thought of how she looked in her fine dress and her sturdy boots. She wore none of the trappings of the dalish, nothing she had worn not even a year before, where simple woolen garments, furs, and leather made up so much of her clothing. No lace, no silk, no bonnets adorned with crystal grace. The man before her wore a simple coat, worn at the edges, and his legs were wrapped with leather up to his knees. Mr. Solas, with his shabby way of dress, looked more like him than she did.

“I will take you to the camp,” he said, though there was still hesitation in his manner.

The camp was spread out over the riverbank, just above waterline and stretching back into a cave shaded beneath yet another rocky hill. She saw many signs that this was meant to be a more permanent home for the time being - the Aravels were settled upon the ground, canvas sails stretched out to create shaded areas under which she saw tables loaded with food and crafts and furs. Two dalish women sat beneath one, out of sight from the sun, fast at work preparing leatherwork.

But, as with the halla, it was the smell of the camp that caught her most of all. Smelling woodsmoke and leather, hearthcakes baking in the fire and the musk of halla still heavy on the wind. If only there was the smell of a salt marsh to go along with the rest, it would be just like home.

She felt a terrible ache in the depths of her chest, and she felt as though she could cry as a great wave of homesickness and regret filled her.

An elderly man rose from where he crouched with a child, dropping the small magic he had been weaving with him. He was old, his face heavily lined, and his hair gone white and grey with age.

“We have visitors, Keeper,” said the man who had led them to the camp.

“I can see that, Ithiren,” the old man said, leaning heavily upon an ornately carved staff. He looked first to Lavellan, then to Mr. Solas, before his attention returned back to her. “Andaran ati'shan,” he said. “My name is Hawen; I welcome you to our clan, though I will admit I am surprised to see one of our people so finely dressed.”

“Andaran ati'shan, hahren,” Lavellan repeated back to him, her head inclined. “It is good to be welcomed. I am Lavellan of Skyhold, previously of Wycome. My companion is called Mr. Solas.”

She saw it upon his face the moment she said her name - the surprise, the shock. She had wondered if this would be the reaction. Beside her, Mr. Solas seemed on edge.

“Lavellan,” Hawen said, a deep crease between his eyes. “Clan Lavellan that made came outside of Wycome some years past.”

“Yes,” she said, and she saw the change come over his face, the shock turn to sympathy, and she saw Mr. Solas look at her from the corner of her eye. Confusion furrowed his brow.

Hawen leaned his staff against his shoulder and took her hands gently. “Ir abelas, da’len,” he said, and Lavellan’s heart felt heavy within her breast. “We had heard of Lady Lavellan of Skyhold, but we had not realized she was truly one of the people. We thought it a shemlen who took their name, but instead...”

“I took their name,” she said, and thought it had been nearly a year she felt the grief within her breast as though it had been yesterday. “I am the only one of Clan Lavellan who remains.”

She was vividly aware of Mr. Solas standing at her side, his eyes upon her. She did not look at his face. She had not told him this, nor anyone else - only Cole may have known, she thought, for he seemed to be able to see the hidden corners of people’s hearts and minds. And perhaps Miss Wisdom, who had spoken so cryptically of blood and women by the name she now bore as her own.

Later, they sat before the hearth with several members of the clan, speaking and laughing, Lavellan’s grief pressed back as she sought to make the most of this brief visit with another clan of her people, Mr. Solas leaned close enough to speak to only her.

“I am sorry,” he said, and she shut her eyes for a moment, a lump once more forming in her throat. “I did not know the fate of your clan.”

“It is all right; I never said.” She swallowed down the hard knot of old grief. “But I thank you all the same.”

She spoke nothing of the particulars of what had happened, and those of the clan did not press for details. Hawen seemed knowing, but the others less so, and Lavellan was glad for that.

But here is what it was like to be among the People once again: it was like coming home. For even dressed so well as she was, sporting land and title like a shemlen, she _was_ dalish. She was of their blood, they were her kind. Family, even if they had never met before.

They asked her of Skyhold Manor, of course, for that was a great shock to everyone - such a rarity that a dalish woman had been granted such status.

“It was a bit of a ruin when I first arrived,” she told them, and she felt a freeness to speak that she had not in months. “And so bare! I wish I could have put up our banners - the walls would have looked _much_ better with a few of our sails to cover them! But everyone was _quite_ suspicious when I arrived. I think dalish hangings would have shocked everyone _far_ too much.”

“Why not shock them all?” said a young woman who had given her name as Emalien. “Could you imagine their faces if you had?”

Lavellan smiled widely, laughter in her voice. “I imagine there are a fair number of nobles would have died from that shock if I had!”

“And what of your companion? He has kept so quiet! What clan are you from, Solas?” she asked. Lavellan drew in a sharp breath at that, sensing Mr. Solas stiffen where he sat beside her.

“I am not,” he said, and there was an uneasy stillness that grew among those congregated. Lavellan felt most uneasy of all, for she knew well of how some dalish clans felt for those who did not consider themselves those of the People. And so she set her hand upon Mr. Solas’ arm and smiled at those around them.

“Mr. Solas is a dear friend of mine,” she said, keeping her voice light. “He is quite an accomplished artist, though I suppose that cannot be proven simply by looking at him! Now, tell me, what is life like down here upon the plains? For I have not been here before, and I long to hear all there is to know!”

It seemed as though they were hesitant to speak now, knowing an outsider was in their presence, but then the man who had greeted them initially spoke.

“There have been sightings of Hanal’ghilan upon the edge of the southern forest,” he said, and that announcement was met with groaning from several of the others, as though it was a joke drawn long past the point of humor.

“Ithiren, telling everyone will not make it any less a lie,” said a slender woman by the name of Nissa.

“It is _not_ a lie. I’ve seen her!” Ithiren insisted. “She was across the river not two weeks ago!”

Lavellan frowned; the word seemed familiar, but she could not place it. “Hanal’ghilan?” she asked, tipping her head and looking to Ithiren. “I’m not certain I know what that is?”

“She’s supposedly a _golden_ halla,” Nissa said, just shy of rolling her eyes. “Ithiren has been claiming to have seen her since we set up camp here. But it’s only an old legend particular to the area; it’s unlikely you would have heard it.”

“She’s supposed to appear when the People are in need,” said Ithiren. Beside him, Emalien sighed.

“We are _always_ in need.” Her previously joyful voice seemed dimmed. “When my brother disappeared, we were in need. When the Orlesians drove us from our last camp, we were in need. When a third of our halla fell to poachers, we were in need. There’s no magical creature from legend who will save us. It’s foolish to think such a thing.”

“Real or not,” Lavellan said, for she could sense an old argument brewing, “it is a good story. Sometimes, hope is what you need, more than anything.”

 

***

 

They stayed until the first signs of evening approached. Lavellan was loathe to leave, but she said her goodbyes with a heavy heart. The keeper embraced her, brushing a kiss to each of her cheeks, and she promised that next time she was near she would find them once again. The young man Loranil had sheepishly asked if he might one day see Skyhold Manor, and she told them all that if they should ever be so far north, they would be welcome in her home.

She felt at once heavier and lighter as she and Mr. Solas returned to Miss Wisdom’s house. She once more felt the loss of her clan as a weight tied around her heart, and yet to be among the dalish, to be among those like her -

It was a feeling of acceptance she had not truly felt in some time.

 

***

 

That night, as she lay trying to sleep, Cole came and curled up at the foot of her bed.

“You are sad,” he said, softly, as she pressed her face into the pillows. “You miss them.”

She turned just enough so that she could see him, his face outlined by the moonlight that streamed through the window. His hair turned to spun silver and his skin to pearl, and he seemed almost translucent.

“I do.” She felt the absence of her family deeply, like a hard knot in her heart. It was a grief so constant, taken root long ago.

“How do you smile when you hurt so much?” he asked her, and that knot grew to a lump in her throat.

“You just do, Cole.” She reached out and smoothed the moon-silver hair from his forehead. “Sometimes, a hurt has to stay hidden, or else it will consume you. I cannot bring my clan back, and so I keep that hurt hidden until it is bearable.”

Cole was quiet for a moment, one of his hands curled near to his cheek. “I don’t understand.” His voice was a whisper. “So many people hurt so much; how can I help everyone?”

Lavellan felt his words like a little dagger in her heart; she smiled so sadly at him, at this little ghost boy who was now such an unexpected part of her life. “You can’t help everyone, Cole,” she said. “You can give away bits of yourself trying to help, but you can’t fix everything. But...but I can tell you this. When people leave or die, they can leave little holes in your heart, but those holes don’t have to stay forever. Other people can fill them - maybe not exactly, they may leave little gaps, for no one can fix everything - but you can fill up your heart until everything else doesn’t hurt as much.”

Cole blinked up at her with his wide, luminous eyes. “I fill a gap in your heart,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“You do,” she said, because he did.

“And Solas does, too.”

A small laugh caught in Lavellan’s chest. “I think so, Cole. I really do.”

 

***

 

She woke to a pounding upon the door that pulled her swiftly from slumber. Her heart was set to racing as she sprang from bed, pulling a dressing gown on over her night dress as she hurried to answer the door.

Mr. Solas stood there, looking as disheveled as she had ever seen him, fatigue heavy beneath his eyes.

“Lady Lavellan, I would ask for your help,” he said, attempting to collect himself, but she could see that he was worn thin with worry of some manner.

“What is wrong?” For it was so evident that something was, from the cast of his face to the tremor just barely veiled in his voice.

“My friend - Wisdom - there is something wrong. I cannot sense her; it is as though she has vanished from my gaze. Please, if you would accompany me once more to her home -”

“Of course I will. Give me only a moment to dress and then I will follow you anywhere,” she said, not asking how it was he knew something was wrong. That was a question for another time, when he did not look as though he was barely hiding his panic.

She dressed as swiftly as she was able to, pulling on sturdy boots, and with Cole on her heels the three made their way from the small Orlesian town out into the countryside as quickly as they could. Lavellan suggested that the book passage on a carriage, but Mr. Solas was intent to go by foot.

By the time they drew near to Miss Wisdom’s house, Mr. Solas’ face seemed to have gone quite pale with worry.

What they found, however, was worse than Lady Lavellan had anticipated.

She could smell the smoke even before she could see the house. It was an acrid, thick smell, something that seemed not at all like wood set alight, but instead rank, sharp things. Like hair or metal burning, and it caught in her lungs and made her want to vomit.

Mr. Solas outpaced her, though she kept up, only slightly behind him. Cole, like a little blaze of light, flickering in and out, and all around them fear and tension so thick it seemed like a second blanket of smoke in her lungs.

And then the house came into view, no longer blocked by rock and hill, and Mr. Solas stopped so fast that she nearly ran into him. He drew in a breath, a sharp gasp of pain and shock, broken as though a sob was caught within his chest.

“ _No_.”

And she saw - what did she see? Through thick smoke she saw the house, licked with flames, turning the white walls to black. All that there was, turning to fire and ash.

“Miss Wisdom is in there!” she cried, starting forward. She had half a notion of drawing upon what little magic she had, to wreath herself in ice and go in after the spirit.

“No, she _isn’t_ ,” said Mr. Solas, and she had never heard his voice sound so pained.

She looked again, through the ash and smoke, drawing as close as she dared. And she saw what drew Mr. Solas’ anguish. There, in the mud and the muck at the river’s edge, was something large and dark and frightening. It had seemed no more than a boulder at first, an overly large river rock slicked algae and decayed leaves, but she saw it move, saw it draw up from the riverbank. Up and up, for it was large and great, it’s hide rough like a thousands sharp shards of rock stacked upon one another. It dragged itself further from the burning house with great clawed hands.

“What did they do, what did they _do_ , how did this _happen?_ ” There was a frantic edge to his voice; she saw the tension in his jaw, in his spine, in the way that his fingers tensed as though he wished to claw at something.

She looked again to the great, terrifying creature as it pulled itself up to its full, gargantuan height. She saw the horns that curled from its skull, the many eyes which flickered open and shut, the sharp teeth that lined its mouth as it threw back its head and _laughed_.

_What is wisdom turned wrong, when it is changed and grown fat upon its own self importance?_

“ _Pride_ ,” she said aloud, drawing Mr. Solas’ attention. He looked to her in something akin to shock. “That’s Miss Wisdom, isn’t it? A spirit removed from its purpose, and so she’s become _pride_.”

“Yes,” he said, and he sounded so very sad and so very frightened. “Yes, that is _exactly_ it, though how this happened -”

“They set the fire,” Cole said softly, sadly. “When she wouldn’t come out of the house, they grew frightened. _Always something strange about that place and the woman who lives there. She’s been there so many years, beyond count; she must be a blood mage_. They thought she’d bring demons down upon them, and they made their fear real.”

“You there!” said a man, coming out from where he had hidden within the rocks. There were two others with him, another man and a woman. “You _must_ help us! This creature - it will kill us! It’s already killed the woman who lived here, and it will find us and -”

“ _Shut up._ ” Mr. Solas started forward, advancing upon the man, and he suddenly seemed the most frightening thing there. “ _You_ did this to her, you forced her from her home because of your own _fear_ , you’ve changed her into this -”

Lavellan caught him by the wrist before he could move further towards the man, who looked even more terrified than before. “Mr. Solas, _please_. There’s no time for that - there _must_ be a way to help her!”

He looked at her, his wrist caught fast in her grip. “She cannot withstand this world; she is not like Cole, able to move about with the core of himself intact.”

“But she could within the house,” Lavellan insisted. “If we return her to the house, perhaps we can reverse this!”

“You’ll burn,” said Cole. “She’ll burn, too; you’ll become bright and turn to dust.”

“It is an idea.” Mr. Solas looked out towards the creature that his friend had become. The expression upon his face made Lavellan’s heart break. “But you are right; if we can return her to the house, where the veil is thin, she may revert to her true nature. I can deal with the flames, but we _must_ find a way to reverse her course.”

“We’ll find a way,” Lavellan said, so strongly that she almost believed it herself. Mr. Solas looked at her once more, and he seemed almost hopeful.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he said, and then she released his arm and the three of them turned their attention to the demon of pride which stood upon the riverbank.

It had moved closer as they had spoken, and as they approached it Lavellan could feel the heat from the burning house grow greater. The rank smell grew as they neared, and she realized it was the creature itself which caused it, bitter and sharp and exceedingly wrong. It made her stomach turn and writhe, and there was some energy in the air that set her head to buzzing.

“ _Ah_ ,” said the pride demon who had once been Wisdom. “ _Look at this. Little creatures, thinking themselves so grand. So_ wise _. What a delight! Each one of you, with your precious,_ precious _pride._ ”

“We aren’t like you,” Cole said, from where he had suddenly appeared near the demon’s feet. “You don’t have to be like you, either. You could be Wisdom again, if you’ll let us help.”

“ _And what good is a snivelling thing like_ Wisdom _?”_ Pride laughed, a deep sound that shook her bones. “ _Look at how you think you can help, always knowing what is best for those around you. You see such things in others, even the things they keep hidden, and you think you know best. You_ do _know best, don’t you?_ ” It laughed again, and it stomped down with a great foot upon where Cole had stood but a moment before. The muck of the riverbank squelched loudly.

“The fire, Mr. Solas!” Lavellan said, and she was glad to see Cole appear safely atop one of the large river rocks. “Put it out!”

She felt the pull of magic behind her, a gravity that seemed to pull at her very bones. She did not want to look away from the demon before them, but she could not help it. For it seemed to very strong, this pull of magic, stronger than most of the trivial magics she had seen practiced before.

There was ice upon the ground, drawn from the very air. It grew upon the charred grass and turned the mud solid; it crawled forward until it touched the blackened walls of the house and it scaled those. It grew and it grew, pulling all warmth from the air, until her skin grew chill.

“ _Run_ ,” Cole said very softly in her ear, but he was too late, for a great blow caught her and sent her sprawling. Into the mud and muck at the side of the river she fell, Pride towering above her. It bent down as river water made the skirts of her dress heavy and her fingers scrabbled at muddy stones.

“ _And you!_ ” Pride said, a delighted note in it’s voice, laughter caught deep in its throat. “ _What a thing you are! So small and fragile and tiny, but bearing so much importance! Look at how you’ve been raised high, so much higher than any other of your blood! You’ve been draped in riches and land and title, with only more to come. And what do you do for those who are not so high? But what do they matter, for they are little more than pebbles beneath your feet; even those whose ears are so sharp do not share the blood that elevates you. They’re all such little things, compared to you, and they look up at you and thing how great, how_ grand _, and look at you with such wonder! All deserved, for who can be greater than_ you _?”_

Lavellan pushed herself backwards as the great face of Pride drew near; her arms sank into the water, her entire back wet and cold. She saw, just past Pride, that the flames were beginning to go out as ice encased the remains of the house, and she saw Mr. Solas and how he looked at her with wide eyes and -

“This is not you, Wisdom,” he said, and she heard him even over the rush of the stream and the roar of blood in her ears. “Please, _my friend_. Come back and we will help you. You will be yourself once again.”

And Pride, who had dipped down as though to devour Lavellan in its gaping maw, rose up once more. The laughter was worse this time as it turned, turned upon Mr. Solas who stood looking suddenly so calm behind it.

“ _You_ ,” said the demon, advancing upon him. _“Oh, but you should not be here, for who has more pride for me to feast upon than_ you _?”_

“Such a thing is of no importance,” said Mr. Solas. “If you will let me, I will help you to become what you were.”

“ _You speak as though that would be preferable, and yet you stand here, stinking of pride yourself. You know what you are; you’ve named yourself the very thing. We were mirrors before, but now we are_ the same _.”_

It leaned down to catch him, but he had moved, stepped so quickly to the side that it seemed as though by magic.

“ _I know what you are,_ ” the pride demon said to him. “ _So beyond everyone else, looking down even more than the lady who sits within Skyhold. Everything is so wrong now, and only you_ \- only _you - can fix it, can’t you? But think of what we could do together. We would be so much greater than any other in the world.”_

“It wants to devour us,” said Cole, sunk knee deep into the river beside her. His hands were upon her arms, helping her up. Her shoes slipped upon the river rocks. “Like Envy, only it doesn’t want to _become_ us, it only wants our _pride._ ”

Lavellan bit down upon her bottom lip, thinking furiously. She saw Mr. Solas move once more, avoiding the grasp of Pride as it attempted to catch him. And she _thought_ -

“Pride!” she called out, trying to draw the demon’s attention. “Pride! Yes, I am speaking to you, and you will listen! You wouldn’t dare ignore _me!_ ”

As the demon turned its attention to her, Lavellan pulled upon every bit of self importance she could think of. She thought of how it felt to live within Skyhold, to how nobles in Val Royeaux _had_ to pay attention to her. She thought of how she felt when she learned that the lands of Emprise du Lion were hers. She thought of every compliment she could remember, and she let herself feel every bit of pride untempered.

She saw its dreadful mouth pull into a smile, showing sharp teeth. _The better to eat you up, pride and all_ , she thought as she backed away, the muck of the river clinging to her boots.

“I am the lady of _Skyhold_ ,” she declared. “I am the heir of _Grand Duchess Justinia Divine_. I hold the highest status of any elvhen women in the last century, and you will _listen to me_.”

Pride laughed, lurching towards her, the spikes of its skin dripping river water, glistening in the sun. It brought its face close to her and she inhaled the acrid smoke of its breath. Behind her, all the flames had gone out.

“ _I am going to eat you,_ ” said Pride, it’s claws reaching for her. _“I’m going to swallow you whole, all of your delicious, delightful pride. Such a shining, glowing little dalish woman, full to the brim with possibility. What a feast you will make!”_

Her feet crunched as she stepped further back - she glanced down to see glass from the shattered panes of the greenhouse.

Looking away from Pride again was a mistake, as it had been before, for the demon reached out once more. It nearly caught her, the tips of its clawed hands rending her dress, but she tore herself away, tripping backwards over the ruined threshold of the greenhouse. She fell among the charred, dead plants, hands scraping over glass and the ice that still lingered.

And Mr. Solas was at her side, and this time she was certain it was magic for the blur that he left as he moved. He set his hands to her shoulder, his body half curved over her, looking up at the demon who still lingered outside the perimeter of the house.

“You know me, old friend,” he said, and there was such sadness within his voice. “You know me better than any other. _Please_.”

The terrible grin upon the demon’s face grew even wider; Lavellan could see down it’s throat as it spoke, and there was something deep and dank and terrifying, brimming with green fire.

“ _I know you well, ma solas. I will feast upon you and it will be enough pride to last me a thousand more years.”_

Perhaps it was however much pride sat within Mr. Solas’ heart, or perhaps it was the addition of his pride to her own, for it was enough to draw the demon in. For a moment, it towered over them, it’s mouth wide, teeth gleaming, the reek of metal and blood and ash all around them, and then as it bore down upon them it’s feet crossed the threshold of broken wall of the greenhouse.

And Lavellan, lying there with her hands bloodied and her skirts shredded and heavy with river water, let go of all that pride she had pulled into her heart. For she was those things, yes, but they were not what defined her, and she, in the deepest parts of her, knew that she was no greater than anyone else, no matter how many titles and praises were heaped upon her.

But she looked up and saw the teeth of the demon and she thought it had not worked, she had been _wrong_ , and now Pride would succeed where Envy had failed all those months ago.

She shut her eyes.

She felt, instead of teeth sliding into her skin, a weight fall upon her legs. It was light, too light, to be the Pride demon, and she opened her eyes to find Miss Wisdom - no, just _Wisdom_. Wisdom, wrung thin and insubstantial, all that she was coiling in upon herself as the large, sharp thing that was Pride melted away. The acrid smell in the air faded, until the smell of earth and living, green things covered even the lingering smell of the burning house.

“ _Please_ ,” she said, and even her voice seemed like it came from a distance now, thick with pain and longing. “ _Please, let me go_.”

And Mr. Solas moved to her side and took her hands. Her fingers looked long and brittle and like the whispy paper of wood turning to ash.

“I am sorry,” he said, and the look upon his face tore at Lavellan’s heart. “I am so sorry. I was not here.”

Wisdom reached up with fingers that grew less and less as the wind caught at them. Her fingertips grazed his cheek.

“ _You will endure_ ,” she said, her voice no more than a sigh. “ _You always do, and you always will. Please, let me go, my dearest friend._ ”

Mr. Solas took her hand, curling his own fingers around hers. He bent forward, murmuring something so quiet that not even Lavellan, as close as she was, could hear it. And then his hand opened, his fingers flared, and it was light fire caught within Wisdom, green like the light that had been at the core of Pride, and she dissolved like ash. The wind caught her, caught up her fingers and her arm, taking her away in layers until she was washed away.

And then there was only silence.

Mr. Solas looked at his hands, streaked with soot, and his eyes seemed unfocused and distant. For a moment, he seemed so lost, like the world had been stripped away from him, and then he rose and all the sadness in his bones seemed replaced by fury.

She saw, peeking out from behind one of the large river rocks, the man who had approached them earlier. The one who had started it all.

“Thank you,” said the man. “We thought it was blood magic, and we were right - summoning demons -”

Mr. Solas strode forward. In that instant, he seemed more terrifying than the demon.

“ _You_ ,” he snarled, his voice biting and harsh. “ _You killed my friend._ ”

“ _He will kill them_ ,” a voice whispered in her ear, words caught on the wind. It was not Cole’s voice.

Lavellan pushed herself to her feet; she stumbled forward and her hand, bloodied by glass, grasped that of Mr. Solas.

“ _Solas_ ,” she said, and somehow that was all it took. He stilled; she felt his hand convulse in her own, and then he grew still.

Lavellan drew herself up and she looked at him, the man before them, the one who Mr. Solas might have killed, and she fixed him with a look that stopped him cold.

“You will leave here, now,” she said, and there was a stillness to her voice, a strength she could not remember having used before. “You will go back to the town and you will wait there, and when we are finished here I will see that what you have done does not go unpunished.”

“It - it was _blood magic_ -” the man stammered, but Lavellan did not relent.

“ _Go_ ,” she said, and then, as he turned, she looked to Cole, who wavered in the corner of her vision. “Cole, if you could follow them, please. Make sure they do not leave.”

He nodded, and then he was not there anymore.

When Lavellan looked back to Mr. Solas, she saw the grief etched upon his face. It was in every line of him, every inch. It drew at the corners of his mouth, at the his jaw, at his eyes. He looked away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she squeezed his hand in her own. “I am so sorry we could not save her. Please, if there is anything I can do to help…”

He looked down, at their clasped hands. At the blood from the glass, and at the ruined plants all around them. And then he turned and his gaze found hers. Somehow, his eyes softened and his sorrowful mouth pulled into a smile.

“You already have,” he said, and for a moment their fingers were tangled together, and for a moment she wanted to embrace him, to smooth the grief from his face, to chase it from his very bones, but she knew how deep such a thing sat, and she did not know how to best it herself.

She felt, very briefly, the electric hum of magic fill the air; it twined around her fingers where he touched her, and when she looked down she saw that the cuts from the broken glass had closed.

And then Mr. Solas released her hand. He stepped back, and once more he could not look at her.

“I...I need some time,” he said. “Please, go back, go to Skyhold, leave me.”

“Mr. Solas…”

“Please,” he said again, and she nodded, even as she wished to tell him that he did not need to be alone through this. But he turned away, he left, and she did not know where to.

Lavellan stood among the burned wreckage of the house, uncertain of what to do as the reality of what had happened began to set it. She felt very cold, unsettled, and her own grief for Wisdom now grew within her heart until it ached.

She looked down at the ruins of the greenhouse, and she saw there the shattered basin that had housed the lotuses the spirit had so prized. The water had spilled, drained away, and the plants sat there, charred and tangled and broken. But as she looked she saw one - the blood lotus, the roots still intact.

She was not certain why she did it, but she tore the bottom of her petticoats away. The fabric she soaked in the river, and then she wrapped the lotus root carefully within it. She did not know if she could save it, but she thought that, perhaps, she could try.

 _Thank you_ , she thought she heard, two words within a breath of air, and she thought that it almost sounded like Wisdom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to add this earlier, so I'll put it up now:
> 
> I've sat down and gone over my whole outline for the rest of this story, so as of right now (barring the possibility of a few things getting stretched out or added), this fic will end about 30 chapter (plus an epilogue). That makes for quite a bit more story, since (as this chapter shows) sometimes these chapters end up being huge!
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has been reading, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!


	21. In which a game is started that Lavellan is not certain she wants to be part of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note that there’s a slight change in the chapter - I realized mucked up all my politics just a bit, so Justinia Divine is now a Grand Duchess since without the Chantry it seems to be the only thing comparable to what I need, so…*handwaves change*
> 
> Also, an apology for the delay on this chapter! I hit a bit of a road block/writer’s block after that last chapter, but the next chapter should be up within the normal weekly posting schedule! Thank you all for the comments and feedback on the last chapter; I will get back to all of you soon!

There were many things that Lady Lavellan had learned about grief throughout her life. She knew that it could be a harsh thing, a lingering thing. It could hurt more than anything else, tearing and twisting and clawing inside. She knew that it could sit quietly for days and weeks and even months, until a sight or a sound or a dream or a word could draw it forth once more. Grief, she knew, could be a small thing, or a large one. It could debilitate, if one let it, and it could tear down even the strongest foundations until they were reduced to stinging eyes that could shed no more tears and a heart that was no longer in one piece.

She knew how lonely it could be, and because of that she worried all the more about Mr. Solas in his absence. He had gone someplace that she did not know, with no one at his side, and the very thought of him alone with his grief pained her. She remembered it clearly - the tremor in his voice, the way his jaw had clenched and the lines of his face grew ragged.

But he had wanted to be alone, and she would honor that. It was not as though she knew where to find him.

She returned to the small Orlesian village and quickly made her way back to her lodgings. While she wished to pursue the matter of those whose actions had lead to the death of Wisdom, she also knew that she looked very bedraggled.

Bedraggled was too kind a word. She realized this when she saw herself in the looking glass in her room. Her dress had been all but shredded up to her knees, her petticoat beneath stained with mud and muck, and there were traces of blood from the cuts that had been upon her hands. There was a hollow look to her eyes, her face drawn and pinched, and it was no wonder that she had encountered a few stares as she had walked through the village.

The dress was ruined. There was no saving it, and so she set it to the side, along with all the other ruined bits of clothing. She washed and changed as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the way her hands shook as she poured water into a wash basin.

She still stank of ash and smoke. It was in her hair, upon her skin. Perhaps it was within her mind as well; perhaps it was only something she could rid herself of with time.

When she was clean, her hair done up as neatly as she could, she set out to find Cole.

And, by extension, those who had been responsible for Wisdom’s death.

She found him outside, sitting atop a crate of turnips. He seemed almost dazed, the world around him going about its business, ignoring him while he ignored it. For a brief moment, he seemed as insubstantial as the glimmer of light upon water.

“They tried to leave,” he said as she approached, and she was glad to hear his voice, to know that he was still real. “They are inside, now. They still think they are right, but they weren’t.” Cole looked up at her, his eyes glassy and red. “I know why they did it, but I don’t know _why_.”

Lavellan felt a painful twinge in her chest. “Cole…”

“She was so very old,” Cole said, as though he could not see her. His looked like those of a corpse, clouded over, no longer seeing. “Tired. The world was too large and all too small, and she remembered before, when everything was the same. Wisdom, waiting, watching, withered and wanting. Pride hurt her, and it was easier to die than to remain here. But she didn’t _have_ to.”

Lavellan sat down upon the edge of the turnip crate, right beside him. She threaded her fingers through his hair, letting his rest his head upon her shoulder. He felt very cold to the touch.

“She became something else so easily,” he said, his words like mourning. “I don’t want to become like that again.”

“Again?” she asked, but Cole did not say anything else.

There was only so long that they could sit there, for they were cast many odd glances. Lavellan was uncertain whether it was because she appeared to be sitting herself with her arm wrapped around nothing, or if it was because she was a dalish woman sitting with a seemingly human young man who was quite clearly not her son. But the strange looks added up, and eventually she stood, smoothing her skirts as she did.

“I will be back,” she told him softly. “I just need to take care of something.”

He hitched his knees up before him, wrapping his arms around them. “They won’t listen,” he murmured, tucking his chin down as though he was trying to hide within himself.

He was right.

She had almost forgotten, somehow, how little her voice could count for within this society. Though she attempted to speak with the magistrate, to impress upon him the direness of what had happened - leaving out, of course, what Wisdom had been and become - and that those responsible should be brought to justice, she found that no one heard her.

They saw her ears and her words became nothing to them.

She ought to have remembered this. She should have known, but she had become used to those spaces where she was known, where she could say she was the Lady Lavellan of _Skyhold_ and that allowed her voice to be heard.

“They didn’t hear you,” Cole said when she returned. He still sat atop the turnip crate, and the way the sunlight hit him, he looked as though all of the color had been bled out of him, leaving only sunbleached bones.

“No,” she said, and she felt a hollow pit in her stomach.

Sleep evaded her that night, and she lay awake with thoughts running through her head until the sun crept over the horizon and birds began their morning songs. Her head spun when she rose, for she was deeply unrested, and there was a sense of vertigo to all of her movements.

She had come to a decision that night, one which was perhaps hastily made, but she was not clear headed enough in the morning to decide otherwise. So she packed as swiftly as she was able - both her and Cole’s thing, for there was not a trace of Mr. Solas to be found - and then she booked passage for both herself and Cole on the next train north.

“You could return to Skyhold if you wanted to, Cole,” she told him as they waited at the station. The smell of coal and metal from the waiting train set her stomach ill at ease. Cole shook his head.

“No, I will come with you. I _want_ to come with you.”

She patted his shoulder softly, still caught in the haze of fatigue, and sometime later the two of them boarded the train.

She dozed then, lulled by the mechanical motions of the great machine, her head tipped so that her cheek rested against the glass of the window. She did not see the countryside whip by, and she did not stir until Cole gently shook her awake as they pulled into Lydes. The bulk of the day had gone by without her noticing.

Now, what she planned to do was only a half formed idea. In reality, she had no way of knowing if it would work at all. But if a magistrate of a small town would not listen to her, then she decided the only choice was to go to someone above them and hope that _they_ would recognize who she was and listen to her.

It was, all things considered, good that she slept while aboard the train. Though she felt the twinges of exhaustion, she was significantly more alert. She was quite certain she would need all her wits to bludgeon through what she planned to do.

***

“ _No_ ,” Lavellan said as firmly as she could, though her efforts at keeping her voice calm were beginning to fail. “I do not want to _sit calmly_ or _return to the alienage_. I wish to speak with whoever is in charge of legal matters in the Exalted Plains, and I wish to speak with them _now_.”

She was _incredibly_ frustrated, though not particularly surprised at how the situation was progressing. She was, after all, dalish, and a dalish woman - even a well dressed one - was often overlooked in matters such as this, unless there was someone to back them up.

Lavellan rather wished that Lady Josephine or Cassandra were there to lend her backup. Lady Cassandra’s intimidating glower would have been quite helpful in convincing this obstinate official to take her seriously.

“Is there some matter here?” a deeply accented voice said from behind her.

The official she had been arguing with for the past half an hour gave a weary, harassed look. “This _woman_ will simply be leaving, your grace,” he said, and Lavellan’s shoulders and back stiffened further.

“No, I will _not_ ,” she said, entirely missing the way that stranger had been introduced. She was quite determined not to back down from this even though she’d already heard several unpleasant remarks about her ears in the time since she had started this all. “I have brought an _issue_ from the Exalted Plains. My concerns have been ignored there , and as such I bring them _here_. Only to be ignored once again!” She turned then so she could see the man behind her, and was slightly surprised to find _two_ men.

They were both very Orlesian, and quite high society. It was easy to tell from the cut of their clothing, as well as how they held themselves. One of the men was tall and thin, old with a spry look of one who had been quite nimble in his youth. The other was shorter and stockier, though still taller than Lavellan herself; he was barrel chested and his jaw was quite blocky. Handsome, she supposed, and he carried himself like a soldier playing at being a nobleman. They were both older than herself by a wide margin, though the latter had the look of a man just nearing the end of his prime, whereas the former was quite older.

The younger of the two men seemed barely to pay her more than a disparaging glance; he seemed to regard her only out of disdainful amusement. The elder, however, looked slightly more contemplative.

“And who makes this complaint, if I might ask your name?” said the older of the two. The cadence of his voice told her it was the younger who had spoken first.

She drew herself up, spine straightened, jaw set. “I am Lady Lavellan of Skyhold,” she said, and she watched the elder’s eyebrows rise.

“Why, you’re Vivienne’s Lavellan!” he said, and she was surprised to see a smile cross his face. “She has spoken of you often, and only in the best of terms. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He gave a slight bow. “Duke Bastian de Ghislain. I suppose you have heard of me? Though, perhaps you have heard more of my companion, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons?”

Lavellan’s eyes went wide, and she instantly sank into a curtsey. Her face flamed into a flush that was equal parts embarrassment and anxiety, for she had never before been in the presence of someone so high in society. Apart from the Grand Duchess Justinia Divine, but as she could still not remember that meeting she was quite without comparison. “My lords,” she murmured, feeling _entirely_ out of her element, her earlier bluster knocked from her.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, my lady,” said Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. “I have heard much about you.”

Lavellan looked up to see him give a slight bow. It was a stiff movement, though she could not tell if it was from a sense of superiority or simply because he was less prone to the flamboyancy of most Orlesians. He had immediately struck her as more military than other nobles she had met, and from what she knew of the Grand Duke she was not far off with that assessment.

What she did note is that, as soon as she revealed her name, his stiff disinterest changed. His eyes flickered over her face, and it no longer seemed as though she was immediately dismissed as unimportant.

 _Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons_ , she thought, and she was entirely uncertain as to how to approach the entirety of this situation. There was a gravity to this meeting that she could only partially comprehend.

The political situation in southern Thedas was not something that Lavellan had given much thought to prior to her arrival in Haven. She had been, after all, a Free Marcher, and while those northern cities were sometimes affected by the turmoil and intrigue of the south, the small city states were less united and there was no ruler over all of them. In terms of land, a prince in the Free Marches likely ruled as much as a duke in the south.

But, like everything else in Orlais, their political system was complex and, at least to Lavellan, seemed far too extravagant. The land was so carved up - ruled by smaller nobles, who were then ruled by larger nobles, who in turn were ruled by even greater nobles. Lavellan was not entirely certain of the specifics of it, and she was, in truth, not entirely certain what her own particular station was, now that she had come to inherit a portion of Justinia Divine’s land.

What little Lavellan did know, however, was that Justinia Divine had been a Grand Duchess and had held as much, if not more, land and power and influence than this man who now stood before her.

“Vivienne was telling me about how she planned to visit Skyhold this summer,” Duke Bastian said, and Lavellan could not tell if he was in genuine good spirits or simply making small talk. He _seemed_ amiable enough and had easily diffused the tension in the room with his easy manner. But Lavellan knew a little about Orlesians and their manner from both her interactions with Madame de Fer as well as Lady Josephine’s instruction, and she knew she could not take either of these men’s words at face value.

“We had discussed such a thing at your last meeting,” Lavellan said, uncertain of precisely what she should say. “She has been quite hospitable to me upon my visits, and it is only appropriate that I return such a thing in kind.”

Behind her, the official who she had been arguing with gave a little movement of agitation, though he obviously was trying to hide it. Grand Duke Gaspard’s eyes slide past her to the official.

“It would appear that you have some unfinished business. Perhaps I could be of some assistance in resolving the matter, my lady” he said, and the official’s eyes went wide.

Lavellan attempted to keep her expression carefully blank, but she could not help the small pang of apprehension that twisted in her stomach. The question of _why_ was at the forefront of her mind. _Why_ would a Grand Duke offer to help her?

“That would be most appreciated,” she said, her voice as neutral as she could make it.

He _could_ help her, she supposed. While the Dirthavaren had been under the rule of Justinia Divine, she knew that Grand Duke Gaspard held power there until an heir to the Divine’s land could be fully determined.

If she was not incorrect in her understanding of the matter, that meant that until she and Lord Corypheus settled their matter, he ruled there. A warm flush anxiety settled in her chest as she thought - not for the first time - that there was a possibility - a _slight_ possibility -

Grand Duchess Divine, descended from Andraste Divine, could well have been empress of Orlais, save for what was little more an accident of circumstance several hundred years prior. That the Lady Andraste Divine herself had not been empress had more to do with existing in the early days of the empire, with her house and the house of Drakon vying for power. In the end, one had come out ahead, but both remained incredibly powerful.

Before her death the Lady Divine had stood on par with the other Grand Dukes and Duchesses of Orlais. Her rule had stretched over much of the south, from the Frostback mountains where Skyhold lay, to the desert wastes of the west, all the way down to where the land turned touched the unclaimed forests of the Arbor Wilds. Gaspard du Chalon’s land lay directly north.

Lady Lavellan was not at all certain what to make of Grand Duke Gaspard, and she became not more certain in the time after they met. He was far more blunt than she had anticipated, and yet he seemed perfectly civil in the conversation that followed their initial introduction. He had no reason to like her, she knew, for if she were not in the picture, he would easily take control of Emprise du Lion, and likely Skyhold as well.

She felt that she should be quite wary of him, even as he assured her that he would personally look into the matter of bringing those who had burned Miss Wisdom’s home to justice. It was, she had to admit, what she had been hoping for when the officials in the south had ignored her, and yet she could not wonder at what possible motivation he could have for helping her.

It seemed entirely too easy, and she wondered at what game he was playing.

***

It genuinely surprised her how quickly her business in Lydes was concluded, though she supposed that a chance meeting with nobility had helped her greatly. Still, no matter how well it had gone, she found herself rattled by the meeting with Grand Duke Gaspard, and with her heart still heavy from Wisdom’s loss she found herself ready to return home. With a promise to Duke Bastian that she would see him and Madame Vivienne in Skyhold during the summer, Lavellan said her goodbyes and she and Cole took a morning train out of Lydes, heading east.

She was quite anxious to return to Haven, more so than she had initially thought, though it was not hard to determine the reason for the feeling. She was still quite worried for Mr. Solas’ well being, and she dearly hoped to see him already there when she returned. It caused a deep ache in her heart to think that he had not come home, instead somewhere in the south where he could hide with his grief.

The numbness she had felt in the first few days past Wisdom’s death had worn off, and with the business in Lydes concluded her own grief finally set in with full force. It seemed a hollow pit in her stomach, an emptiness that seemed to claw up into her throat. It was a pressure behind her eyes, like tears that needed to be shed but had not quite come.

She had only known the spirit a few days. Mr. Solas had known her far longer, had seemed as though he considered her family, and Lavellan knew how deeply that type of loss could cut.

But upon arriving once more in Haven, she found that he was nowhere to be found.

It was not her place to be so concerned, she reasoned as the next week dragged by. They were nothing more than friends, and she knew he was not from Haven originally. Perhaps he had returned to wherever he called home and the family he must have had there.

So she stopped worrying. She did not worry when she had dinner with Cassandra and Leliana the following Tuesday and Leliana asked about her foray into the south. She did not worry when she took tea and played cards with Mr. Tethras and Miss Harding that Thursday, wherein Miss Harding asked - very innocently - if she knew when the Chargers would once more be in Haven. She _did not worry_ when a full week had passed and she had heard nothing at all of him.

The lotus root that she had rescued from Wisdom’s house had only just survived the trip home; with Miss Ve’mal’s help, Lavellan was able to revive it. She mused on the idea of constructing a greenhouse of her own, an idea to which Miss Ve’mal’s enthusiasm was immediately apparent.

She was continuing to not worry about Mr. Solas when a letter arrived the Sunday after her return from Lydes. When the post was brought to her over breakfast and she saw her name scrawled upon the missive, she could not help the way her heart leaped. For a glimmering moment, she thought that, perhaps, he had written to her. To let her know that he was all right.

And yet when she opened the letter, her heart plummeted straight into her stomach with a sickening, nauseating sensation, for it was not from who she had expected at all. It was not even from Captain Bull or from Krem, either who she would have much preferred to receive a correspondence from.

The letter read thusly:

_Lady Lavellan,_

_I am writing on behalf of Lord Corypheus of House Dumat. I write, in fact, to inform you of the most recent developments in the situation which you find yourself part of. Do not mistake my meaning in writing, for I do this not out of any kindness to you, but instead to inform you as to the manner by which your future will unfold._

_The land which you hold claim to is Tevinter land of old, specifically of the family of Dumat, to which Lord Corypheus is the rightful heir. Moreover, I will call your attention to documentation which will be verified in the Orlesian courts come the end of the season - House Dumat is related to House Divine through marriage, some three centuries back._

_You will, of course, understand that this will prove a more legitimate claim upon the land and fortune of the late Grand Duchess._

_If you should care to provide a defense to your case, we shall make arrangements to bring the matter before the Orlesian courts._

_Sincerely,_

_Calpernia_

She read the letter once, then twice, making certain she fully understood what it said. A white hot feeling of embarrassment and anxiety had bloomed upon her cheekbones, making her feel quite ill with nerves.

Her first instinct was to rush out the door to find Lady Josephine, who would likely be able to provide her with a better sense of what this meant. But as the initial rush of adrenaline left her, she realized she could do nothing at that _exact_ moment, and so she might as well finish her morning tea as well as what remained of her breakfast before she ran off to Haven.

Still. The buttered toast tasted like ash in her mouth and the tea was little more than hot leaf juice, and as soon as she had finished she pulled on her sturdiest shoes and tied her bonnet to her head and then she was off to Haven.

Now, though her intent was to speak to Lady Josephine, she was waylaid almost as soon as she entered the town by none other than Mr. Varric Tethras himself.

“Out for a spot of early morning running, are you?” he said, and Lavellan grinned sheepishly. She had, indeed, been walking _very_ briskly.

“It’s good for the heart,” she replied, and she noticed that he seemed rather put out about something. Not about her, she thought, for he had seemed somewhat morose prior to him actually seeing her. “Is something the matter, Mr. Tethras? You look as though you’ve stepped into something unpleasant.”

“Oh, _that_.” Mr. Tethras gave a small, rather ungentlemanly snort. “It’s nothing at all. Just friends making poor decisions, my best friend’s almost-brother-in-law deciding to be a pompous ass, and lagging book sales. The usual.”

Lavellan raised her eyebrows at his working. “Almost-brother-in-law?” she repeated, though as soon as she said it aloud she worked out the meaning and flushed with embarrassment. Mr. Tethras chuckled.

“Her little sister’s going to marry a prince. Someday. If he manages to keep the stick out of his -” He coughed, cutting off his words. Lavellan could not help but smile herself; she’d heard far worse. “In any rate, it’s been a fine day. And what has you looking like you’ve run all the way here from that house of yours?”

Lavellan gave a brief internal debate as to what she wished to disclose, then sighed heavily. “Oh, only Lord Corypheus and his maniacal machinations. Apparently, he cannot even be bothered to write me letters personally when he is trying to antagonize me.”

“Hawke always did say he had a flare for the megalomaniacal,” Mr. Tethras said, and something lit within Lavellan’s mind.

“Say, do you know if Lady Hawke is still in Haven? I ask for absolutely no reason of circumstance,” she told him, rather cheekily. Again, Mr. Tethras gave a snort of laughter.

“Of course. Then I won’t tell you that she’ in Crestwood, doing absolutely nothing of circumstance relating to _your_ circumstances.”

“ _Really?_ ” Lavellan gave a heavy sigh, for Crestwood was some distance, and not connected to Haven through a railway. “I don’t suppose you would have a way of getting a message to her, would you? Quickly, I mean.”

“My lady, I could get any number of messages to her quickly. I have my methods.”

Once again, her smile returned. “Give me just a moment then; I merely need to jot this down, and then I’ll send it with you?”

Of the papers she carried with her, one was blank upon the lower half; this she tore off, writing down a quick message in an ungainly scrawl. It was not a pretty looking letter, but she supposed that it got the intended meaning across.

It would do well to inform Lady Hawke of what was going on, particularly as the two of them had discussed ways by which to handle the entirety of the Corypheus situation. Granted, they were far more underhanded, devious plans than what Lavellan discussed with Lady Josephine, but it seemed good to have more than one approach to this.

Later that day, when she spoke to Lady Josephine, she decided not to tell her of the plans with Lady Hawke.

***

Two weeks after her arrival at Haven, Mr. Solas finally returned.

There was no fanfare, nothing to indicate that the day would be anything other than ordinary. It was, perhaps, an overly fair spring day, warm enough for a pleasant walk in the countryside. Those trees that could had burst into bright color, covered in small stars in whites and pinks which had not yet begun to be shed upon the ground. The air itself was thick with the smell of pollen, the sweet smell of spring heavy within the air.

Lavellan had taken the afternoon to herself after attending to business within Haven proper - she had sent a second telegram to Lady Hawke, with Mr. Tethras promising to let her know if a response came back within the next day. Still, she was full to the brim with worry, and was caught in the rather helpless mentality of not knowing how to progress with the entire Lord Corypheus situation. If Lady Hawke had a plan, Lavellan reasoned, then she could at least wait to hear it, as she had no better course of action at the present.

She was rather lost in worry and thought as she walked the paths outside of Haven, but she was not so distracted that she did not notice the man on the path ahead of her as she came around one of the particulars twists of the road, and when she _did_ notice him her heart leaped in such a remarkable manner that she was surprised it did not simply burst forth from her chest.

He saw her, perhaps the same moment that she saw him, and she saw the hesitation in his step. But he continued to walk towards her, and so she continued to walk towards him as well.

He looked...oh, but he looked _sad_. He looked worn, as though from many sleepless nights, and he looked drawn as though years had caught up with him in an instant. It seemed as though the fine lines at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced.

But he looked at _her_ and…

“Mr. Solas,” she said, and she was surprised by how calm her voice sounded. Surely, with how her heart pounded, her voice would be less steady. “You’ve come back.”

He inclined his head, his gaze falling away from her. “I have. Though...I was not certain if I would return.”

His words hurt, bringing forth once more all the worry that she had kept bottled up in the days after Wisdom’s death. Again, she remembered the emotion in his voice then, so very apparent. And yet now he sounded, once more, quiet and reserved, the intensity he had shown in those moments, the sadness and anger, hidden away.

“I am glad you did,” she said. “I have worried after you for some time, and I am glad to see…” What? What was she glad to see? That he was all right? For there would be no truth in that, for he was _not_ all right, though he tried to hide it. “...you,” she finished, her brow furrowed with that same worry, though her voice was soft.

He looked up at her; his brow was furrowed as well, his lips slightly parted. He looked at her, his eyes flickering over her features, as though searching for something.

“Where did you go?” she found herself asking, and once more he looked away.

“I found a quiet place,” he said, surprising her, for she did not fully expect him to answer. “Away from everything, where I could simply...be. Where I could accept that my friend, one of my oldest and dearest, was gone.”

“What happens to a spirit when they die?” she asked then, for it had been on her mind for some time now. Both because of Wisdom and because of Cole.

Solas tilted his head to the side, as though contemplating what to say.

“A spirit is, in essence, an idea,” he said. “An emotion made real. An individual, composed of these things. Wisdom was a dear friend, formed of that concept. What she is - what she _was_ \- has dissipated. Perhaps one day, something like her will reform, but it will not be _her_.”

There was such sorrow and regret in his voice, thick and overflowing, and her heart ached all the more.

“That is...so very different than I had thought,” she said. “There is something almost kind in that, though not so much as to offset the sadness of loss. And you were close to her.” It was not a question.

She saw his throat work, though most of it was hidden by the cravat he wore. His pulse flickered beneath the edge of his jaw. “She was one of my oldest and dearest friends. Her loss is felt...immeasurably.”

Lavellan wished to reach out to him in that moment. She wanted, desperately, to take his hand and smooth her fingers over the long bones and delicate skin that covered them. To wrap her arms around him and draw him close, until she could feel his heartbeat against her breast. She wanted, ever so much, to not be standing so far from him with her hands clasped before her, the space between them feeling like miles, ever too much.

“Mr. Solas,” she said softly, looking at his face and the lines and imperfections that marred it, each little crease upon his skin, each freckle and scar. “Next time you grieve, you do not need to be alone. Not if you do not wish to be so.”

And _oh_ , how he looked at her then. His lips parted as though he had lost his breath, his brow drawn up and together, and he looked at her in such a way that she felt her own heart stutter within her breast.

She felt as though she had seen iterations of this look upon his face before - when they danced, his hand at her waist, their bodies so close. In the moments when they argued yet came to a conclusion that surprised him. When he had lifted her down from the rocky ledge upon the Dirthavaren. But this look was so much softer, so much... _more_.

He looked at her as though she was some celestial object, hung in the sky, so far out of reach and yet so infinitely precious.

“It has been so long since I dared to trust another. I…” He stopped, as though he had momentarily lost his words as well as his breath. His eyes dipped down, away from her, before returning to her face, the corners of his mouth pulling into more of a smile than she could have dared to believe would grace his face after such grief had torn at his heart. “I will remember that, Lady Lavellan. Thank you.”

 


	22. In which there is a revelation and a mistake

As spring began its gradual slide into summer, Captain Bull and the Chargers military company returned to Haven.

For Lavellan, this was yet one more thing to help lift her out of the melancholy that had been threatening to take root after Miss Wisdom’s death. In fact, the mere presence of Bull raised her spirits considerably.

He realized something was off the moment he saw her.

“Drinks with the boys later, boss?” he said, which was, of course, exactly what she needed to hear. Big, solid, strong Bull, who knew that, sometimes, she needed an anchor and sometimes she just needed to fall apart.

She had not realized how much she had missed him until she saw him again. She supposed it was, in part, since she had spoken so recently about what had happened to her clan. He was the only one he would never need to tell the story to, and she would be forever grateful that he had been there in the aftermath of that tragedy.

Still, drinks with a military company seemed to skirt the lines of propriety, so she smiled regretfully, her hand on Bull’s arm.

“I would love to, but I worry...still. Why don’t you all come up to Skyhold. We’ll have a proper sit down, with drinks after.”

She supposed that, after all, it was her own business who she entertained in her own home.

The Chargers were, to her, a bright light, all energy and sound, and she delighted to see them once again. They did not all come up to Skyhold Manor, though she was overjoyed when Miss Skinner and Mr. Grim came along with Bull and Krem.

“Won’t be in town too long,” Bull said over drinks that evening as they all sat around the fire.

Lavellan could not quite keep her face from falling. “Another job so soon?” she asked him. To her surprise, he chuckled.

“You could say that. Not the usual sort, but there’s an expedition out to the Western Approach that wanted some muscle.” He leaned on the arm of his chair, and she saw something delighted in his face. “Apparently, there are rumors of _dragons_.”

From his side, Krem laughed. “Chief, you know those are only stories. No such thing as dragons. Not anymore.”

Bull gave him an appraising look. “There weren’t supposed to be walking trees, either.”

“Walking trees?” Lavellan asked, for it sounded almost as though Bull was suggesting that those _were_ real.

Krem shrugged, lifting his glass of brandy and taking a sip. “Further you go south, the stranger things get. The forests there are too damn old.”

“They’re full of weird shit,” Bull agreed. “Look, if the world’s going to throw a bunch of weird demon trees at us, why not dragons?”

Why not dragons indeed? But Lavellan knew something of Bull’s enthusiasm for creature that had not been seen in living memory, and she thought it not so different from the dalish boy who had spoken with so much wonder about the golden halla.

“When will you be leaving?” she asked, dread at the answer settling in her stomach, for she did not wish them to depart so soon. It was a selfish thought, but she could not help it.

“We head out in three days,” said Bull, which was far, _far_ too soon.

It was, most assuredly, _not_ what she wanted, or needed, to hear.

Later, Krem drew her to the side. He looked, she thought, almost _nervous_. There was the slightest sheen of anxiety in his expression, perhaps a touch of a blush upon his cheeks.

“I was, uh, hoping I could ask you something,” he began, and Lavellan’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Krem, I would hope that you know you can ask me _anything_ ,” she said. Krem smiled at that, though the flush did not leave his cheeks.

“I was wondering - I haven’t had a chance to see her since returning - do you know how Miss Harding fares?”

Her eyebrows rose higher. “I saw her only last week, and she seemed quite well.” Still, it was not _quite_ the sort of question that she would have thought would bring a flush to his face. “Why?”

Krem opened his mouth of a moment, then paused. The sense that he was rather flustered increased.

“I was wondering, seeing as you are her friend - would it be entirely improper to call upon her?”

By now, Lavellan was certain her eyebrows could rise no higher. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead a wide smile drew at her lips.

“Krem!”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, still looking rather more sheepish than she had seen him. “It is, isn’t it.”

“Oh, Krem.” She set her hand upon his arm, stilling the nervous motion. “While I cannot, of course, speak for Miss Harding, I think it would be an _excellent_ idea to call upon her indeed.”

  
  


***

Quite apart from Krem’s apparent interest in Miss Harding, Lavellan had her own romantic situation with which to contend. Or, rather, she _supposed_ that it was romantic, though it had not been openly spoken of as such a thing. She assumed that it was, and she rather hoped that she had not been mistakenly interpreting Mr. Solas’ intentions.

He called upon her not a day after her dinner with the Bull’s Chargers. It was an overly warm spring day, and they took tea upon the veranda that overlooked the garden. The honeysuckle that climbed upon the trellis smelled sweet upon the warm air, and it was entirely too pleasant.

He had brought a wrapped canvas with him, as he so often did, and this sat beside the table throughout the beginning of their conversation. He had, too, his rough-worn leather satchel that she knew held his sketchbook and his charcoal. She did not, at first, comment upon these, for they were so often a part of his presence as to be overlooked. That was not to say that she was not curious, simply that she could not find a reason to bring them up so early in the conversation.

There was, she did note, a nervous sort of energy to their meeting. Though they sat a respectable distance from one another, there was an air of intimacy to this that she could not quite define. A sense of comfort that lay beneath that nervousness, which seemed such a contradiction, though it seemed to her that it _was_ that comfort which caused the nervousness. Something had shifted since their trip to the Dirthavaren, and they were each intensely aware of it.

“I had something to show you,” Mr. Solas said abruptly part way through tea. Lavellan set her teacup down almost too sharply, folding her hands before her upon her skirts.

“Yes? I would be dearly interested in anything you had to show,” she said, and she saw Mr. Solas’ mouth quirk upwards in the semblance of a smile. He leaned down and picked up the wrapped canvas.

“This is for you,” he said as he passed it to her. Her eyes widened in surprise as she took it, her hands trembling with anticipation as she took it from him.

It was a canvas of medium size, rectangular, with the shortest side being just slightly over a foot in length. The brown paper which wrapped it had obviously been reused several times over; it was battered and showed signs of having been crumbled, and the sides were smudged with charcoal and paints. The rough twine that held it bore similar marks - the entirety of one end seemed to have been accidentally dipped into green paint, which had dried into the fibers.

“What is _this?_ ” she said, even as she began to pluck at the knotted twine. Again, Mr. Solas’ smile became more evident upon his face.

“A momento, I suppose,” he said as she slipped the twine off the canvas. “Or perhaps a memory. You will see when you have opened it.”

The paper fell away easily once the string had been removed, and Lavellan felt her breath catch in her chest.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said softly as she looked at the canvas she held in her hands. “Oh, Mr. Solas, this is _beautiful_.”

It was not classically painted, not in the sense that the word commonly meant. It was also not done in the clean, structured manner of the first drawings she had seen in his sketchbook. Instead, the piece was closer to the stylized thumbnails she had found in the latter half of his sketchbook, with deliberate blocks of color and colors that created sharp contrast and emphasis rather than emulating reality.

It took her a moment to fully take in the content of the painting, with it’s sharp sweeps of color. There was something mournful about the piece, she realized after a moment, as she looked at the play of light and dark, at the stylized shape of an uplifted hand and some great, curved form with many eyes that twisted around the bottom of the composition, a shape done in white that cut so oddly through the piece that it seemed almost to unbalance it. She saw the forms of lotus flowers curved upwards around the central figure, flecked in black and red. And in the center…

“This is Wisdom, isn’t it?” she asked him, lifting her eyes from the painting. She watched him carefully, the slow, subtle play of emotion across his face. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Because I...do not believe things would have turned out as they did without your aid,” he said.

“You would have found a way to help her.”

He shook his head. “My anger...it would have been to great. Without you, I might have sought out those who harmed her before coming to her aid, or my own...pride might have caused both her and my own downfall.”

Lavellan set the canvas down upon the table, carefully keeping it away from the tea. “Mr. Solas, I do not believe that,” she said, and for a moment she almost leaned forward to take his hands in her own, though she refrained at the last moment. Instead, she once more clasped her hands before her. “You are an intelligent man, and you know far more of both spirits and of Wisdom than I do. It may well have...it may well have proved a fairer outcome had I not been there.”

“No,” he said, and there was such conviction in that one word that she nearly startled. “No,” he said again, his voice softer. “No, I know myself well. For all my good intentions, there is something about you without which things would have progressed far differently.”

Lavellan tipped her head down, her eyes falling to where his near-full cup of tea rested before flickering up to look at his face. “And what is that, Mr. Solas?”

“Compassion,” he said, as though stating fact. “A sense of understanding that I have not seen in...a very long time.”

“Do you mean to say that you are not a compassionate man, Mr. Solas?” She meant it to be said teasingly, but her delivery failed.

“Hm.” He lifted his teacup with a long fingered hand. “Perhaps.” He grimaced after sipping at his tea, and she wondered why he continued to drink it when he so clearly disliked it. “Have you always been thus? As you are now?”

It seemed a surprising question. She watched him drink another sip of tea, seeing the shudder that ran through him as he swallowed.

“As I am this moment?” She considered it carefully, her gazing falling to the painting that lay upon the table. A small smile formed upon her lips. “No. No, I have not always been this way. How I am now has been shaped by experience and circumstance. I am not the same as I was when we first met, just as I am not the same as I was before my clan was killed. Is there some core of self that has stayed constant? Perhaps there is. But my compassion is brought about by those I have met and loved, and my understanding by what I have seen of the world. Are you the same as you have always been, Mr. Solas? The same now as before we met?”

Her gaze flickered to his face once more. His brows were drawn up and together, in a look of what seemed to her a fond surprise.

“I am not,” he said, and it seemed almost as though this was a revelation to himself. “It seems that you change everything around you.”

She laughed, though he seemed so serious in what he said that perhaps it was not an appropriate reaction. There was a gravity to what he said, and she thought of so many of his prior words. She wondered if she truly meant as much to him as he seemed to imply.

He looked at her, as though he was looking at something precious to him, but then his expression tempered, turning thoughtful.

“Perhaps I misjudged the dalish,” he said, so softly and distantly that she was not certain at first that she was intended to hear his words. She felt a swift jolt within her chest, surprised elation at his musing. “If they raised someone such as you…”

“They are not paragons of good,” she said, just as softly as he. “But neither are they some terrible people to be harshly judged. My people are simply people, Mr. Solas, people who have been displaced from their home and are trying to keep their culture alive as best they can in a world that often seems as though it does not want them. I believed that you misjudged them, but perhaps you simply needed to look again and you would have discovered your error for yourself.”

For a long moment, he stared at her, until she began to worry that he had taken offense at her speech. As the silence stretched out, she shifted slightly in her seat, thinking that even if he had, she would not take back her words.

But then he smiled, that close-lipped, soft smile of his, and the tension she imagined faded.

“You may be right,” he said. The teacup chimed softly as he replaced it upon its saucer; she saw that he had drunk very little of it still. “In all my years, I have not met anyone like you, Lady Lavellan.”

Her heart seemed to skip a beat, then began to batter itself against her ribcage.

“Well,” she said, all smiles as she tried to contain her overly excited heart, “I cannot say I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before, Mr. Solas.”

“I do wonder…” His eyes dropped, his head tipping down slightly. She saw his glance steal to the painted canvas, and then to her face. He seemed to be cautiously considering something. “Might I draw you, sometime?”

It seemed a most intimate thing to ask, or perhaps it was simply the way in which he asked it. She felt a flush rise, unbidden, to her cheeks.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, and she could not help but continue to smile at him. Where her hands lay clasped, she nervously twisted the ring upon her finger. “You might, Mr. Solas. I would be quite happy if you did.”

***

The flutterings in her stomach and the ache in her heart continued well into the next day, and had she not known the reason behind them she might have thought herself ill. Though to say that she felt _ill_ was a rather incorrect interpretation. She felt, instead, delightfully light, flushed and excited.

It seemed as though everything stood upon a precipice; indeed, she wondered how close they stood to a decision of some matter. She knew how things would go, if she were still with her clan, but she was certain it was not quite the same in higher society.

But it seemed to her that they were always only a touch, only a breath apart. Indeed, she was all but certain of where her own heart stood, and she was fairly certain of Mr. Solas. At least, she _hoped_ that she had interpreted his words and actions correctly.

Still. Best to keep herself without expectations. She was, after all, content to spend time with him as nothing more than a dear friend; if no proposal ever came, she would be all right.

She would be fine.

  
  


***

  
  


“Letter for you, Lady Lavellan,” the messenger who came by the next day said, as she and Miss Harding sat together in the tea room.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Thank you.” She had been quite distracted by her conversation with Miss Harding, and had not realized that anyone had approached them.

“Wow. That letter looks lucky to have arrived at all,” Miss Harding remarked, and Lavellan was inclined to agree. The envelope looked quite battered, and the left bottom edge was slightly soggy. Lavellan took it, wondering where it might have come from.

She opened it gingerly, pulling out a partially damp slip of paper. It was smudged, but not unreadable. At least, the words themselves were perfectly legible. The contents, however, seemed as though someone had scribbled them down as an after thought, or perhaps had been working under an incredible time constraint, and had somehow been unable to use enough letters to fully create each word.

This is what the message read:

PLAN GOING WELL. LEAD ON C. DON’T DO ANYTHING HASTY. MEET YOU IN H. IN 1 WEEK. LH

PS HI TO V

Lavellan blinked at it. “What an atrocious use of capital letters and abbreviations,” she said. “What does this even _mean?_ ”

“May I see it?” Miss Harding asked, and Lavellan hesitated only a moment before passing it to her. Miss Harding was, after all, entirely trustworthy.

The younger woman held the paper before her, peering at it with a wide-eyed expression. She began to chew upon her bottom lip as her face morphed into a frown.

“Well, if I had to guess - and I _do_ have to guess! - I would say that the _H_ means Haven. _Lead on C_. Whose _C?_ Commander Rutherford’s first name is Cullen, perhaps it’s him?”

“ _C_... _Oh!_ Corypheus,” Lavellan said, for there could be not other. She leaned over so that she, too, could examine the print. “That’s two down. Who’s LH and V?”

“Who even _write_ like this?” Miss Harding said, wrinkling her nose. “Though I suppose, given how these things are supposed to work, shorter would be better. Whoever wrote this seems to expect you’ll know them.”

“LH, V…” Lavellan glared at the paper, willing it to give up its secrets. And then it hit her and she nearly laughed. “ _Oh!_ Of _course!_ Lady Hawke sent this, and she wants me to say hello to Mr. Tethras for her.”

Really, now that she had deciphered it, the whole letter seemed an entirely _Hawke_ -like thing to write.

Miss Harding passed the letter back to Lavellan. There was an oddity to her an expression, a sort of glumness that seemed odd upon her normally cheerful face.

“You have _such_ adventures,” she said, a longing to her words. “I wish I could be involved in things bigger than just Haven.”

Lavellan folded up the paper and replaced it within its envelope. She slipped it into her coat. “It’s really not all as exciting as it seems,” she said, smoothing out her skirts. “Mostly, all it does is create the most terrible anxiety.”

“Still.” Miss Harding chewed her lip, her fingers twisting in her lap. “It has to be better than herding sheep and minding the shop when your parents are busy.”

Lavellan’s first thought was to say that she _had_ no parents, and no familial obligation left, but the look upon Miss Harding’s face told her now was not the right time.

“If you had your way,” she began, watching Miss Harding’s fingers twist round and round, crushing the fabric of her skirt, “what would you do?”

“ _Me?_ I…”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t dreamed of something.”

Miss Harding bit down once upon her lip, then looked up. “I would love to explore,” she said quite firmly, and Lavellan had indeed been correct that she knew what she wanted to do. “I want to travel to all sorts of places and see all _sorts_ of things. But I have neither the means nor the ability - I could join the military if I wished, but I have no desire for combat. If my family were wealthier, I might have attended the University in Orlais, and that would have put me where I wished to go. For now, I expect the best I will be able to do is marry someone who is moderately wealthy, who will at the very least allow me to live comfortably.”

“If you wished to attend the University,” Lavellan said, her words all a sudden rush, “I could sponsor you.”

They both stared at each other, each utterly surprised by her words; Miss Harding because she had heard them, and Lady Lavellan because until that moment she had not realized it was something she _could_ say.

“I - _oh_ \- that is -” Miss Harding stuttered. “That’s awfully nice of you, Lady Lavellan, but I couldn’t. It’s a bit too late for that.”

“It’s really never too late for things,” Lavellan said, thinking of how here she was, a dalish woman on the cusp of being too old to be out in society and unattached, and yet she had found herself with a richer life than she had ever imagined. “Please, think about it.”

She saw that Miss Harding’s eyes were quite wide, and her hands were now still and clenched tightly in her skirts.

“I will,” she said, and Lavellan could not tell what she was thinking, no emotion betrayed in her voice. “I really will.”

  
  


***

A week. What was a week, in the grand scheme of things? Lavellan could easily wait one week for Lady Hawke to arrive.

Captain Bull and the Chargers had departed - they left the afternoon that Lavellan took tea with Miss Harding. She did not, in fact, have time to ask Krem if he had called upon Miss Harding, just as she had not told Miss Harding that Krem had thought of calling upon _her_. It was not her place to meddle, she thought, and the most she would do was assure Miss Harding that her offer to sponsor her at the University was a true and valid one.

One single week.

She did not see Mr. Solas much that week, save for a chance passing in the Haven streets; he with Mr. Tethras, herself with Lady Cassandra. They spoke briefly, but in the moments that they did she could barely contain the delighted happiness that grew within her. She wanted nothing more than to speak with him, to argue about nonsensical things, to allow him to take her hand in his own as they wandered the paths around the town.

As they spoke, she found her attention drawn to his mouth, as it sometimes had been, and she entertained the brief, flushing thought that she might like to do more than simply let him take her hand.

The way that he looked at her, she wondered if he might not think the same.

One week, and by the end Lady Hawke had still not arrived.

  
  


***

  
  


It was dark out, a storm having caught upon the mountains and let loose torrential rain which battered at the leaves of the trees and beat down the heads of the spring flowers. It was a cold rain, quite unlike the warmer spring and summer rains that Lavellan was used to in the north, and she had hid within Skyhold Manor for the day, spending time alternating between reading and wondering when Lady Hawke would arrive, for a week had passed and she had not yet arrived.

There came, as the evening drew upon them, a knocking upon the front door. When the door was not answered and the knocking had not stopped, Lavellan excused herself and went to answer it herself.

She opened the door to find none other than Mr. Solas, standing there in the rain, looking very bedraggled and drenched indeed. Her eyes went wide, one had flying to her mouth.

“Mr. Solas!” she exclaimed, taking one step forward before realizing that it still rained heavily outside. “Oh my goodness, please, come in out of the rain!”

“No, I -” She realized, then, that there was something strange in his manner, an anxiousness, nervous energy contained in the rigid lines of his body. Water rolled over the smooth skin of his bald head, over the curves of his cheek, dripping from the harsh angle of his jaw. “I need to speak with you, Lady Lavellan.”

“Of course! Just - come inside, Mr. Solas,” she said, holding the door open for him. He took the final two steps forward, until he stood before her, but he did not come within the house.

“Lady Lavellan, I must tell you something, of utmost importance,” he said, still with the rain falling upon him. “I -”

“Mr. Solas -”

“I care for you,” he said, as though if he did not say it now he would never again utter the words. “I care for you deeply, Lady Lavellan.”

She felt as though her heart might stop. It gave a great thud within her chest, and she felt alternately faint and altogether too flushed. One hand flew to her mouth, the other to her breast; she quite forgot that she had held the door open and it swung closed behind her.

“Mr. Solas…” she said, for though she had _hoped_ , though she had known her own feelings now for some time, she had not known that he would confess such a thing to her. Certainly, she had not known that his words would come in the rain, when it looked as though he had rushed to her home without a second thought.

He looked at her as he had upon the day of his return only a week before, like she was as precious as the stars, as though she was the dearest thing to his heart. But there was something incredibly fragile about his expression, there was something delicate and near-shattered about it, and she did not know why.

“You have changed everything about my world,” he said, and the ache within her chest grew, the heat upon her cheeks and the flush of emotion making her head spin. “You have taken what I know to be true and turned it upon itself, and I...that is why I must tell you. The truth.”

She barely had the words to speak, so much was she thrown by his speech. There was such a giddiness within her, the simple thought that he _cared_ for her like a song that had caught her up.

“The truth?” she dared to ask. “The truth of _what?_ ”

He swallowed heavily; she saw the movement of his throat and the way that a muscle in his jaw jumped. He opened his mouth to speak, and for a moment said nothing. There was such a subtle play of expression upon his face - confusion, apprehension, determination, and something that seemed almost like _defeat_.

“The ring upon your finger,” he said, and that was the last thing she expected him to say. “In my travels, I have discovered its meaning, beyond simply that it holds magical properties.”

Lavellan took her left hand from her mouth, holding it before her. The ring gleamed wetly in the dim light, rainwater splattering upon the metal and the luminous green stone.

“My ring?” she echoed, her eyes flickering from it to him. She recalled then, strongly, how he had taken her hand when they first met, how his eyes had gone to the ring upon her finger. He had not known, then, the particulars of what the ring was, or at least he had not said. “What do you know of it?”

She could not understand the emotions that played across his face, so muted were they, so tightly controlled. Perhaps she could guess, at the tightening around his eyes, the tension in his jaw - perhaps she could read something like pain within that expression. Perhaps cowardice. What did he mean to tell her? She wondered and worried.

“It is a signet ring,” he said then, and this seemed no surprise to her. “Passed down through the family of Divine, mother to daughter, for the past eight hundred years I would expect. It is far older than that, though I could not tell you when it first passed to them. But do you know where it came from? Who first held it?”

“It is elvhen,” she said, looking from the ornate braiding of metal worked into the ring, then to his face. To the tightness in the skin around his eyes and the regret that she could not fathom. “Likely taken when the Dales fell, I would expect, as so many things were.”

“Likely so.” His teeth touched his bottom lip for a moment, once more the stutter of hesitation catching him with silence. “But a ring such as this is old, imbued with magic that would keep it upon the finger of the bloodline who carried it. The Grand Duchess, I expect, did not know this, for she likely could remove the ring at will. You, however, cannot.”

Lavellan drew in a breath. “So my blood is as old as this ring. It does not surprise me, for all elvhen descended from those who came before. I expect you could find many who could wear this ring, our blood diluted over the centuries. I simply came into possession of it first.”

“You downplay the importance, but you do not understand,” Mr. Solas said. His gaze upon her face was searching, the regret upon his features turned to something else entirely. “A ring such as this would have been given by a lord or lady of Arlathan to a lesser noble, a family who did them a service and was raised up in status. It would have been bound to them, so that no one could ever claim their authority as their own.”

“That only tells me _what_ this ring is, but it opens more questions. Such as _who_ it belonged to. And which lord gave it to them.”

She did not expect an answer, but the look upon his face -

“You know, don’t know,” she said, and her voice was little more than a whisper. He nodded, once.

“This ring was, I believe, given to the family which, eventually, bore a man named Shartan,” Mr. Solas said, and Lavellan’s eyes went very wide. She gave a small, nervous laugh.

“Oh, that’s…that’s not something to joke about,” she said, and she took a step back. The ring seemed to burn on her finger, but it could simply have been that she had become so overwrought that her skin had turned far too sensitive. The sound of the rain seemed overly loud. “Not if it is - I could believe that it was his, but not - _I’m_ not -” She shook herself, stepping back once more. Her back hit the door. “I can accept that the Grand Duchess had something of his, as all things that were of the dalish were taken, but I - and who gave it to him?” She laughed again, even more nervously than before. “Surely you will not tell me that it was Lady Mythal or Sylaise or - or perhaps you will say that Lord Fen’harel gave it to him.”

He seemed to freeze at that, though she barely noticed.

“No,” he said, and she realized that there was a touch of sadness to his voice. “I will not say that. I am sorry if what I said has caused you pain.”

“No, it...it is all right,” she said, though she pressed a hand to her chest, attempting to calm herself. She simply could not process what he had said, could not believe that what she wore upon her finger had belonged to Lord Shartan of Dales, and that her being unable to remove it meant - and _how_ did he know? No, it could not be the truth.

 _How_ could he know?

“Is that what you came running through the rain to tell me?” she asked him, heart beating rapidly within her chest.

He seemed so utterly still there, standing in the storm. He stood there, looking at her, rain soaking his coat, dripping down his skin. It rolled down his jaw, his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt.

“I came to…” he began, and it seemed for a moment as though he were going to say something more, something different than what he did. When she looked back upon the conversation later, she would always wonder what he did not say then, what he chose not to say to her. “I came to tell you that I cared for you, and to tell you goodbye.”

If his revelation about the ring upon her finger had stunned her, then this unrailed her entirely. She knew, as soon as he said it, what he meant by goodbye. One did not come running through the rain simply to say goodbye when they meant to meet again in the future.

“ _Goodbye?_ ” The word came out as almost a gasp; she felt as though all of her insides had become violently compressed. “What do you mean, _goodbye?_ ”

“I will be leaving Haven,” he told her. “And I will not be returning. I am...sorry.”

She felt as though all the air had been driven from her lungs, like something small and sharp had been stabbed into her heart. The thought that he would be gone - that he was _leaving_ \- and like _this_ -

It made no sense to her, none of it. Not a thing he had said since arriving at her door made sense.

“So - so what is _this?_ You - you come to my door, in the middle of a _storm_ , no less - and you - you tell me you _care deeply for me?_ But that you are _sorry_ and you are _leaving?_ ” She took a step forward, out from under the eaves, until she stood in the rain only a foot from him. “ _Why?_ Why would you tell me such things and then _leave?_ ”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly, I wish -”

She could not, _would_ not leave it as such. She knew well the feelings of her own heart, she knew well how she had come to regard him. She knew _why_ her chest ached so terribly at the thought of him leaving, especially now that he had said -

“Mr. Solas, I _love you_ ,” she said, before she could stop herself, before she could think the better of it. “I _love_ you, and I do not wish for you to leave, not with that left unsaid between us.”

His eyes went wide. For a moment, for a single heart, he stared at her, and then - and she did not imagine it, she knew she did not - he seemed to reach out to her, as though to touch her face. For that single breathe, she thought -

“I can’t,” he breathed, and he rocked back upon one foot, stepping away from her. “I’m sorry. If we were entirely different than who we are, then - then maybe -”

“What does that _mean?_ Please, explain this to me, because I cannot - I _do not_ understand.” Oh, but her chest ached, her throat felt stoppered, her breath seemed caught someplace apart from her lungs. “Is this because of who I am now? Because of my position and my blood? Because I do not _care_. I do not care if you are not a lord, I only care that I love _you_.”

She saw that each of her words pained him, saw it clearly upon his face. He released a breath that shook.

“In another world,” he said, as though it broke his heart to say such a thing. “In another life.”

“But not this one?” The rain had turned her cold, plastering her hair to her face. Raindrops rolled over her cheeks, catching upon her lips.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then he turned. “Goodbye, Lady Lavellan.”

He did not look back, and he left her there, upon the steps of Skyhold Manor. She stood in the rain and watched him leave, and could not understand _why_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on the chapter, because, well...I dropped a whole bunch of things that the story's been leading up to at the end there. Hopefully I've dropped enough hints throughout the story that this particular reveal isn't completely out of the blue. It's been planned since the beginning, so I've been trying to subtly drop hints throughout. All the particulars about the ring still haven't been explained, though!
> 
> While I know it's a fan theory floating around, I'm not super on board with the Fen'Harel is Shartan/Shartan is Fen'Harel, and for the sake of the plot of this story, that's _certainly_ not something I'm going with (and if we ever get a reveal that they were the same in DLC or something, I'll just state for the record that that was _not_ the case when I wrote this story).
> 
> Also, this is most certainly not the end of the story! This would be more or less the "failed proposal" part of a period romance, so there's a whole lot left to go!


	23. In which there is an introduction to the discussion of the draconic

 

Morning felt hollow and empty and strange.

Lavellan woke to more rain beating heavily down upon the roof, and she rose unsteadily and unhappily from her bed to look out the window. Everything was gray, the cloud full to bursting, dark with rain. The trees themselves seemed to bow their heads before the storm, the wind turning the leaves of the aspen to silver.

She felt very ill indeed, both her head and her heart heavy weights. There had been very little sleep to come by that past night, her thoughts racing into the small hours of the morning. She had been quite unable to calm her mind enough to allow rest to come, and had been left with aching eyes and a dull pounding within her skull.

Unwilling to start the day, she curled up upon the window seat and looked out over the sprawling alpine forest battered by the elements. The old, aged glass of the window seemed even more warped with time from the rain that streaked it.

“He didn’t want to leave,” said Cole’s soft, distant voice. Lavellan turned her head to see him sitting on the opposite side of the window seat, curled up in a similar manner. His straw-like hair seemed even more tangled and drab than normal, and the skin beneath his eyes bloomed blue and purple like bruises. He looked as insubstantial and tired as she felt.

“But he did.” Lavellan wrapped her arms around herself, leaning against the cold glass of the window.

“But he didn’t _want_ to,” Cole said, and though his words were spoken so softly, they still hurt. “He would have stayed. He _could_ have stayed. Light, laughter, kind things that made him feel like this could be home -”

“Cole.”

“He wanted to _stay_.” Now Cole’s voice was a quiet, confused cry. “He did, I could tell even if I wasn’t there. He wanted to stay, but he felt too much -”

“Cole, _please_.”

He looked at her with his large, glassy eyes, and he looked so very lost and confused. “I don’t _understand_ ,” he cried, and he seemed in that moment not at all like a spirit and everything like a boy who did not want to comprehend the world around him. “He wanted to _stay_ , but he _left!_ I should know why, but I _can’t remember_.”

“Oh, _Cole_. Come here.” And she unwrapped her arms from herself and held them open to the little spirit boy. He fell against her,curled up with his head upon her breast.

“Sometimes, people leave,” she told him, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. “Sometimes, they do it for others, sometimes they do it for themselves. I’m certain he had his reasons, even if...even if I don’t understand them, either.”

“He left a hole in your heart,” Cole said, and Lavellan tightened her arms around him, resting her chin against the top of his head.

“He did,” she agreed. “And I’m going to be very angry, and very sad for awhile. But I will be okay.”

And Cole said, very quietly, “you’re lying,” and Lavellan did not try to disagree.

They had sat there for a time, listening to the rain beat against the window pane, when a loud pounding at the front door sent Lavellan into startled alertness.

“A bird has been blown in by the storm,” Cole stated, and for the first time since the night before, Lavellan brightened slightly.

“Well, let us greet this bird, then,” she said, disentangling herself from Cole and smoothing out her dressing gown.

Lady Hawke looked absolutely bedraggled. She stood in the foyer, having been let in, and dripped copious amounts of rainwater onto the carpet. Her hair was in complete disarray, falling out of its upswept style in heavy, sodden clumps that could no longer hold any fashionable curl. Her trouser-clad legs were covered in mud splatters up to her knees, and when Lavellan came closer she found that Hawke smelled quite strongly of horses and dirt.

“Lavellan! Oh, my dear Lady Lavellan, it is good to see you! You -” Lady Hawke paused, eyebrows raised as she regarded her closely. “You look _horrendous_ ,” she declared, and Lavellan winced.

“Thank you, Lady Hawke. You look quite disastrous yourself.”

Lady Hawke stared at her in shock for one brief moment, then threw her head back and laughed. “I do! I really, truly do. I swear, this storm started when I was in Crestwood, and it followed me all the way back here! Now, why don’t we have some morning tea and possibly something of the food-variety, and I’ll tell you about my last month and _you_ can tell me why you look so very sad.”

“I think I’m supposed to be the one to invite you to breakfast,” Lavellan said, feeling a pang at Lady Hawke’s last comment, but otherwise finding her overbearing boisterousness uplifting.

“I would _love_ breakfast,” Lady Hawke said, as though that was an invitation.

Lavellan sighed, but found she could not help but smile. “Stop dripping all over my carpet and I’ll see what we can do about that.”

***

“ - and _that_ is how we ended up taking care of about thirteen kittens and four dogs for a week!” Lady Hawke ended her story by flourishing her buttered scone, sending crumbs scattering over the table. Lavellan smiled fondly; the other woman was something of a disaster. She was loud and overly forward and just barely had the social graces to act her station. She had not, in fact, actually told her anything about what she had been doing in Crestwood, instead regaling her with stories about her life in Kirkwall.

Lavellan found her utterly delightful.

“ _Now_.” Lady Hawke leaned back in her chair, crossing her long legs at the ankles. The mud upon her trousers had dried, and her sodden boots sat by the fire to do the same. Her white shirt had, thankfully, been saved from the elements, and she had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. “Why do you look so dreadfully upset? Oh, you’ve been smiling off and on, and I know it’s because I have a _delightful_ sense of humor, but you’ve got the saddest look around the eyes and I absolutely must know why.” She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “I may not look it, but I am _very_ good at causing pain to people who hurt my friends.”

Lavellan did not doubt this. Her intent to destroy Corypheus’ reputation had been the first sign of this, and reading through some of the old _Champion of Kirkwall_ issues had helped to flesh out the motivations of the woman sitting before her. What surprised her more was that Lady Hawke stated this in such a way that it seemed as though Lavellan was already numbered among the dearest of friends.

“It’s really no matter,” she said, though one look at Hawke’s face told her that the other woman _knew_ she was lying. “Really, why don’t you tell me what you found in Crestwood, I’m sure that’s more interesting.”

Lady Hawke tapped her finger against her lip. “I was meeting up with an old friend. Well, not an _old_ friend. He _is_ old, but his friendship is slightly on the newer side. A present friend, I should say. And _you_ remind me of that look someone has when their heart has been well and truly stomped upon. Am I right?”

She was, but Lavellan only hunched over her tea, trying to keep a tight hold upon her emotions. She was not doing as well on that task as she had hoped. “T-this friend. How does he tie into this entire Corypheus ordeal?”

“Oh, he ties into it nicely,” Lady Hawke said evasively. “Very neatly tied in, with a nice little bow. He’ll be very helpful, indeed. Old _ties_ to the whole business.”

“The mine business?”

“Something like that,” she said, even _more_ evasively. Despite the fact that Lavellan’s heart was still making little unpleasant pangs, she was focused enough to realize that Lady Hawke was _not_ telling her something.

She put her sternest look upon her face. “Lady Hawke, what exact business does this friend of yours have with Corypheus?”

“ _Eeeeeeeh_ ,” said Lady Hawke.

Lavellan continued to stare at her. Lady Hawke continued to fidget.

“Oh, _all right!_ ” she exclaimed after nearly thirty seconds had passed. “He’s a warden! And, for that record, my brother is a warden! And, if you _really_ must know, the whole mine ordeal was a _warden_ mine ordeal. It’s all very _warden_ -y, which is, of course, the most secretive of things.”

Lavellan made a sound that was very reminiscent of a mouse being trod upon. Lady Hawke nodded in response.

“ _Exactly_ ,” she said. “I had hoped to keep that from you, simply because it would, well, have _simplified_ things. Wardens are a tricky business, and he’s not exactly the _best_ warden. If I had to rank them, I’d probably put him -”

“Lady Hawke,” Lavellan said wearily, for it seemed apparent that she would continue to ramble if not stopped. “ _How_ can he help us with Corypheus?”

Lady Hawke gave a tentative smile. “Well. You _see_. There are rumors - more than rumors, really, _nearly_ fact - that a confidant of Corypheus and a confidant of the late Grand Duchess Divine have taken flight to the west. The latter of which, so I have managed to discover, was one of the last people to meet with the Grand Duchess. Mere hours before you supposedly met with her, in fact.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Did _no one_ check this?” Lady Hawke looked alarmed. “Or maybe you simply weren’t told. One would think that you might not have been told all of the particulars about the day the Grand Duchess died. Was it your scholarly, shabby artist friend?”

“ _What!_ ”

“I meant who stomped upon your heart, not had anything to do with Justinia Divine’s death. Was it him?”

“Please, just...this confidant. Who are they?” she asked weakly. Lady Hawke pressed her lips together into a thin line, obviously not liking that she knew redirecting the conversation.

“Ms Clarel Grey was apparently a close friend of Grand Duchess Divine,” she finally said. “But it would be more appropriate to call her _Commander_ of _the_ Grey. Commander Clarel, as it were. And Corypheus’ confidant is a squirrely, greasy little man named Livius Erimond. He’s a magister.”

Lavellan felt a very strong urge to bash her head against the table. Instead, she simply heaved a weary sigh, looking down at her tea in a very dejected manner. Wardens and magisters. Two things she rather did not want to deal with.

“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Lady Hawke leaned forward against the table, and her expression had turned very soft and sympathetic. “Your artist.”

“He’s not my artist,” Lavellan said, feeling a little jolt through her heart as she spoke. “I had thought that he could be, but he’s not.”

“Oh.” Lady Hawke bit down upon her bottom lip, chewing on it as she gazed at Lavellan. “I’m very sorry, my dear. I had very much thought you two would - well. I was under the impression he was quite taken with you, but I suppose I was mistaken.”

“Oh, no.” Lavellan tried to smile, but she found she could not. “Apparently he cares for me deeply. Which he told me before saying goodbye _forever_.”

There was a crease growing between Lady Hawke’s brows. “Forever is a long time,” she said, not unkindly. “But this man told you the equivalent of _I love you_ and then he just left?”

“Yes.”

“What an _ass_ ,” she said, and the laugh that fell from Lavellan’s lips was sudden and sharp. “No, don’t laugh, what an _ass_. Who _does that?_ Granted, you are in no desperate need of a husband, given your status, but - what an _ass_.”

“Please, Lady Hawke, do stop saying _ass_.”

Her friend looked quite affronted. “I will _not_. The day I stop saying _ass_ is the day that I actually decide to live up to the Amell legacy, which is all stuffy and boring and not at all conducive to underground publications that expose the bad parts of my city. No, Lady Lavellan, I’m sorry. That’s dreadful of him. I’m not sure if it would be appreciated, but I do have some...not advice, but words from someone who has had their heart quite crushed as well. If you would like them?”

Uncertain though she was about what Lady Hawke might say, Lavellan gave a small nod, no more than a slight inclination of her head.

“Love is shit,” Lady Hawke said, vehemently enough that Lavellan’s eyes went wide and she sat up straight in her seat. “Love is _absolute_ shit, and half the time when you fall in love it’s with someone who you’re going to end up waiting on for three years while the run off themselves out, and even when you think things are going to work out all right you find out that they’re in trouble with the authorities or someone from their past is out to get them or their family is terrible or they’ve got it in their mind to start a revolution.”

“These all seem oddly specific,” Lavellan mused, but Lady Hawke seemed to ignore her comment.

“The thing _is_ , sometimes you’re going to end up waiting, while the person you love _finds themself_ , whatever that ends up being, and you have to make a decision on whether to wait or move on. There’s no sense in hurting for years over someone who cannot make any effort for you.” Lady Hawke folded her hands before her, and she looked very serious indeed. “It’s going to hurt for awhile, but when it’s done hurting, let him go. If he comes back one day, that’s wonderful, but if he doesn’t...if he doesn’t, if you’re able to look back on him one day and you don’t hate him, consider it a good thing.”

“Thank you, Lady Hawke,” Lavellan said, though she did not feel any better, and in fact wondered more than ever about Lady Hawke’s own romantic life.

“Please, call me Hawke. It’s what all my dearest friends call me,” she said with a smile that was just slightly tinged with melancholy, as though her words had dredged up some sort of terrible emotion within her.

“Then you must call me Lavellan.” She still found it terribly strange that Lady Hawke so quickly considered her a close friend, but she supposed that must simply be part of the woman’s personality and charm. She found she quite liked the idea that they were already dear to one another.

“Now, while I _do_ want to discuss this matter in greater depth, because I am dreadfully curious, we _are_ going to need to get ready for a trip west,” said Lady Hawke, and the melancholy seemed entirely removed from her face. “We are going to Adamant.”

***

And thus, Lavellan found herself aboard the train once more, heading into the far west along with Lady Hawke. Though Cole had asked if he could accompany them, it took only a little convincing to have him remain in Haven, where Lady Cassandra and Leliana agreed that he could stay with them for the duration that Lavellan was gone.

“I’d highly suggest bringing trousers,” Lady Hawke had said as she helped her pack, and Lavellan had mournfully revealed that she owned none. She had contemplated lending her a pair, but the difference in their height was quite apparent, and Lavellan’s hips were not quite large enough to fill out anything that Lady Hawke wore. So Lady Hawke had sighed and decided she would have to make due with what she already owned.

They arrived after several days at the end of the rail. It was, quite literally, the end, for they had come to the borders of what was considered civilized Orlais. The train pulled into the final station in the final town, which was a small, dusty affair set just as the plains finally gave way to sand.

Lady Hawke nearly bounded from the train as soon as the doors had opened, kicking up plumes of red dust which covered the platform. There were few people at the station, and only one or two departing the train along with them.

“Oh, where _is_ he?” Lady Hawke said, more to herself than to Lavellan. “I _did_ send ahead to tell him when we’d be here. That blighted man, never being where - _oh!_ General! General, over here”

She had little need to raise her voice, but she did so anyway. Lavellan winced at the volume, but a moment later she saw who Lady Hawke was calling to. It was not hard to pick him out from the few people upon the platform, an imposing figure in a deep blue coat that was trimmed in silver.

“There’s no need to yell. I can see you quite plainly,” said the man who Lavellan assumed was Hawke’s warden contact. He was a tall man, slender yet with broad shoulders, and a stiff posture unbowed by age. His hair was heavy, cropped short in the back and shot through liberally with grey; his face was traced with lines, and there were hollows beneath his eyes that spoke of perpetual exhaustion. A hooked nose curved above a stern mouth, and the stubble upon his cheeks was silver. “About time you showed up, Lady Hawke.”

Lady Hawke gave him a rather wide smile. “The train was delayed. And now, introductions! This is my dear friend Lady Lavellan of Skyhold. And Lavellan, this is General Loghain Mac Tir.”

General Mac Tir inclined his head. “Former general. Lady Hawke likes to exaggerate.”

“So I’ve come to know,” Lavellan said, just as Lady Hawke gave a rather unlady-like squawk of protest.

“I only exaggerate during weekdays,” she said, drawing herself up as though terribly affronted. “And all day Saturdays. Sundays only upon request. Now, have you gone and acquired us all horses, General, or will I need to go _exaggerate_ at someone to get some?”

“I’ve already gotten us horses,” said General Mac Tir, and Lavellan could truly not tell if the sense of exhaustion that emanated from him was simply his state of being, or if it came about from dealing with Lady Hawke. “I’ve more to tell you, but not here.”

“Of course. _Far_ too open.” Lady Hawke attached herself to his arm, drawing him across the platform. “Come, General, show us the horses.”

Now they had, in fact, packed for their sojourn into the desert. Lady Hawke, for all her frivolity, had a keenly logical side to her, and had pared their belongings down to only what they would need. There was no need to keep up appearances out there, she had said during their trip. Most Orlesians did not care for the Western Approach and it’s desolate wastes.

As they walked through the small town - no more than three buildings beyond the platform - the place they had found themselves in unfurled around them. The ground had changed from dirt to sand, and the plants from trees and shrubs to small, scrubby things which could live upon little water. It was not hot here, though it was warmer than Haven, but it was dry. Lavellan could already feel that dryness in her eyes and her throat.

General Mac Tir had acquired four horses for them - three to ride and one for supplies. There was water, enough to take them to one of the forward camps, or so he claimed, and food for a good week in the desert.

“How far is Adamant from here?” she asked as her fingers checked the girth upon her horse’s saddle, making certain it was fit snug, but not so tight as to pinch.

“It’s a three day’s ride,” General Mac Tir replied. He helped her up upon her horse, for though it was the most delicate of the four she still found it several hands to high to easily mount alone without considerable effort.

“And you’re certain they’re still there?” Lady Hawke made sure that her hat was carefully secured over her hair. She already sat astride her horse and looked slightly ill at ease, one hand tightly clamped upon the reins.

“I’ve eyes upon Adamant since they arrived,” the General said, heaving himself abroad his own steed. “They’re there.” He clicked his tongue and urged the horse forward. Red-gold dust rose up in a cloud with each step.

Lady Hawke, however, seemed quite more nervous than Lavellan had ever seen her. She sat anxiously in her saddle, too stiff and unmoving, and it was quite obvious that the horse felt her discomfort. Her grip upon the reins was too tight and when she tapped her heels to it’s side, the horse backed instead of moving forward.

“Hawke, you must relax,” said Lavellan, who was quite at home upon a horse. It was not the same as riding a halla or a hart, where she would have gone without saddle or bridle, but it was close enough.

“I _am_ relaxed. I’m as relaxed as I can possibly be.”

“You _must_ relax into the saddle. Look, you’ve spooked the poor dear.” The horse was, indeed, looking quite skittish, which only made Lady Hawke the more nervous.

In the end, Lavellan took the horse by lead and Lady Hawke concentrated on simply attempting to be less frightened of being astride the creature.

“...be more comfortable on a dragon,” she heard her mutter as they set out into the desert. “Dragons are far better than horses.”

Lavellan decided not to dignify that with a response.

***

The desert that stretch out from the western edge was a wide, sweeping ruin of land. It had once been verdant and beautiful as the Dales were now, or so story said, but there was no evidence left to tell that tale. Everywhere there was sand, gold and bronze and red that the wind swept forth into heaping dunes. Where there was no sand, there was rock, great and jutting, smoothed and hollowed by all the wind and sand and time.

As they rode, the sun beat down upon them. It, too, was harsh and relentless, burning over the ground and turning all but the hardiest of shrubs to withered stalks. Though her hat hid her from most of it, she still felt its sting upon her nose, and the bite of the sand upon her cheeks.

She was no longer used to riding for such long periods of time, and by the end of the first time her back and legs and thighs ached. Lady Hawke seemed the worst off of the three of them, and complained bitterly about it. General Mac Tir, for his part, seemed darkly amused, if slightly annoyed at Lady Hawke.

Lavellan did not know what to make of the General. She knew his name, but she was not of Ferelden and had not paid attention to the politics of the southern country until recently. He was, she recalled, the father of the current queen. But he had been disgraced and sent into exile, though the king had - or so the story went - desired his death.

He seemed old and weary, she thought, yet sturdy in a way that nothing could shake him. A warden, Lady Hawke had said, and she could see the wings of a griffon embroidered into the collar of his coat.

The second day, the endless desert was broken in places by ruins. They sat beneath the sand, some with only the smallest parts showing, others reaching up towards the sky as though refusing to be forgotten. The sand had turned them all to red and brown - or, perhaps, they had always been thus, perhaps the land here had always been red, even when once covered in trees and forests.

“They say an ancient thaig sits beneath the desert,” General Mac Tir said when he saw her staring at a great statue half buried by the sand, time having worn all detail from its face. “But there’s no trace left of what it was called, or the names of anyone who once lived there.”

Something tugged at her heart as she saw the ruins. The world was built upon bones, she thought, and only fragments remained to remind them what had once been there. Old, ancient things, fading from memory.

Like the ring that sat upon her finger, its origins something she did not wish to think about, even as the gravity of it all hung upon her shoulders like a shroud.

The third day, the road they followed branched into an ancient highway just visible beneath the sand. They took the right-most fork and it was shortly after this when they came upon the remains of a small caravan.

Or, rather, what was left of the caravan was small - one cart, upturned crates strewn about. It was ominous as the birds that flapped around it. General Mac Tir dropped down from his horse, boots instantly becoming tinged with dust, and stooped to examine the wreckage.

“Well?” said Lady Hawke from atop her mount. She rode by herself now, having relaxed _somewhat_ into riding.

“There are no bodies,” the General said, rising and dusting his gloved hands upon his trousers. “No signs of a fight. It looks as though someone abandoned these in a great hurry.”

Lavellan leaned in her saddle as she manouvered her horse past the crates. “Why, these are supplies! Water, food - who would abandon these in the middle of the desert?”

They found no answers there, and none in the next few miles. As midday drew near and the sun grew too scorching and bright to continue, they came to the top of a dune and that was when they saw Adamant.

It was still in the distance, still too far to reach easily. But it sat upon an ancient mountain weathered short by centuries, a great stone structure silhouetted against the sky. A fortress from an age before, long abandoned. There was a great, gaping slash across the earth near it, like a wound that cut from one edge of the horizon to the other. An abyss, as the world fell away.

It took Lavellan’s breath from her lungs, though she did not know why. There was something desolate and sad about the view before her. And something that tugged at her gut, a crawling unease that coiled within her.

Perhaps it was simply nerves. Yes, that must be it. She was to find this Commander Clarel, who might have some means to aid her, and she was to meet this Erimond, who might be useful against Corypheus in some manner. Lady Hawke certainly thought so.

But as she looked out over the wastes before her, she saw movement - down below the rise they stood upon, people moved.

It was not until they rode closer, on their way towards Adamant, that she saw how the sun glinted upon armor and _horn_ \- and she realized who it was they had stumbled upon.

“Captain! Bull!” she called out happily as she pushed her horse into a trot to cover the remaining distance. The huge man looked up from where he lazed against a stack of crates, and she saw a great smile break out upon his face.

“Boss! What a place to run into you! Boys, look who it is! A welcome change of pace, wouldn’t you say?”

She brought her horse to a stop before him. “What’s all of this, then?” she said, looking out at the encampment, Lady Hawke and General Mac Tir bringing up their horses beside her. Tents were set up, supplies beneath brightly colored canvases.

“This, my dear Lady Lavellan, is an archeological dig. Why, does it look like something else?”

Lavellan’s eyes went wide. “Dorian!”

She allowed Bull to sweep her down from her horse to save her the indignity of trying to jump off in her skirts, and then she swept across the camp to where Dorian’s head had appeared. “Whatever are you doing down there?” she asked him. He looked absolutely _filthy_ , covered in dust and dirt, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“ _I_ am uncovering _history_ ,” he declared with a flourish. “Now, help me out of this pit, it smells dreadful.”

He reached up and Lavellan took hold of his hand, helping to hoist him out of the depression in the land. She saw that many wide squares of earth had been cut away.

“I didn’t know _this_ is what you came out here to do!” she said as she released his hand. He looked quite in a disarray, but in a sort of artful manner that made it seem as though he meant it to be so. The sides of his head had been freshly shaved, she noticed. “What are you uncovering.”

“A dragon,” said Bull, coming to stand beside them. “Or what remains of one.”

“Yes, yes, let’s all focus on the _idea_ that it’s a dragon,” Dorian said dismissively. “We haven’t identified it as such yet - we only have a _femur_ and a few other bones to go off of. Wait until we have a wing uncovered and _then_ we may more accurately assess what it is.”

“You’re uncovering a dragon in the desert?” Lavellan’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Bull, when you said you were going to see dragons, I didn’t think you actually _meant_ real dragons!”

He grinned widely at her, even as Dorian said, insistently, “we don’t _know_ it’s a dragon yet!”

“Still,” he said after a moment, “it is _fascinating_. The size of the femur alone is larger than any creature I’ve seen before. Felix has been talking about nothing else _all day_.”

Lavellan brightened further. “Felix is here as well?”

Something odd crossed Dorian’s face; for just an instant, he looked pained. The expression passed as suddenly as it had come. “Oh, he’s inside of the tents over there. Probably talking with Frederic over something or other to do with bone density”

She excused herself, leaving her horse with Bull, and quickly found her way further into the camp. She could hear Felix’s voice before she saw him. When she did, it was to find him seated within one of the tents, looking at the contents of a table, debating loudly with a man dressed in red and white. He looked up at the sound of her approach, and his eyes went very wide.

“Lady Lavellan!” He made as though to rise from his seat, but partway through he stopped, sitting back down heavily. “I did not know - that is to say, this is wonderful!” He made a second try at getting up, and this time he succeeded.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the shadows of the tent, but even as he came out into the sunlight she saw that there were deep shadows under his eyes, and he seemed very pale indeed.

“How have you been, Felix?” she asked him, disliking the slight waver in her voice as she asked. He smiled at her, as though he didn’t notice.

“Better, now that we’ve begun finding things! Did you know, when I attended the University, I had always thought I would one day like to work with Frederic here, and now I am? Frederic, come meet Lady Lavellan. She’s a friend of myself and Dorian.”

The man in red and white looked up from the bones upon the table. “Ah, yes. Hello! Did you, by chance, come to study the fossils here? We’ve had great success so far! Well, not in identifying which specimen of dragon we have here, but if we continue to uncover bones at this rate, we shall have the most complete draconic skeleton ever recovered!”

“Dorian said that you were not yet certain it _is_ a dragon,” Lavellan said. Frederic laughed. He had, she noted, a quite genuine laugh.

“Oh, _Dorian_. I’m certain once we have the proper identifying bones to _prove_ that it is, indeed, a one hundred percent a dragon, he will be as excited as we are. But for now, it is all speculation. Exceedingly exciting speculation, however!”

“Come, let me show you some of what we’ve found!” Felix turned towards the table, but Lavellan half heartedly shook her head.

“I’m so sorry, Felix. Truly, I would love to see everything you are doing here, but I am just passing through. I and several companions are heading towards Adamant.”

Felix’s brow furrowed. “The ruin on the hill? Whyever for?”

“For…” She paused, uncertain what to say in such an open error. “Business. When I heard you were here, I simply _had_ to see you, but I really should return to my companions. Perhaps, when my business in Adamant has concluded?”

Felix smiled at her, a warm expression that seemed to brighten the haggard look of his face. “Of course. We will still be here for quite some time.”

Loathe though she was to say her goodbyes, Lavellan left Felix and the supposed dragon bones and returned to where Lady Hawke and General Mac Tir stood speaking with Dorian and Captain Bull. As she neared, she saw there was a new arrival - a big, burly man in a worn dark leather coat. He stood with his back to her, but there was something terribly familiar about his build. She allowed herself to walk slight to the side, so as to catch sight of his face as quickly as she could. When she did, it took her only a moment to realize who it was.

“Constable Blackwall!” she exclaimed, having not expected to see him here. She quickened her step as he turned to look at her fully. There was a look of something like surprise upon his face; he frowned as he met her eye. “Constable Blackwall! You are yet another person I did not expect to meet out here! You’re looking...well.”

It was a lie. He looked rather aged since she had last seen him; his long hair was caught in a messy bun at the back of his head, but she saw that liberal amounts of grey now streaked from his temples, threading through the black. His beard was shot through with white as well. Deeper lines than she remembered traced his skin, and he looked as though he had aged a decade when less than a year had passed since he had aided her in Val Royeaux.

Oddly enough, what drew her eye the most was a tarnished golden hoop jammed through one ear.

“You know Lady Lavellan, Blackwall?” General Mac Tir asked, and Blackwall stared at her for a moment longer, then seemed to shake himself as though awakening from a spell.

“Lady Lavellan. Of course. I remember you. Quite an unforgettable meeting.” His voice was rough and low, and he looked at her in a way that made her want to blush.

“ _Quite_ ,” she repeated. “I was very glad for your assistance then, and I am certain I will be grateful for it now as well. And you know him as well, General Mac Tir?”

“He’s my contact who’s been keeping an eye on Adamant while I waited for you,” he said gruffly, and Lavellan looked at Constable Blackwall again, her mouth slightly open. She saw, then, pressed into the leather of his coat, so covered by dust and grit she could barely make it out, the unfurled wings of a griffon.

Wardens, everywhere. She had not expected this.

“Well if _that’s_ introductions all around, why don’t we get on with exploring this ruin of yours? I’m dreadfully excited to see what it is that you are all going on about!” Dorian’s voice was loud, cutting over them all.

“You don’t _have_ to accompany us, Lord Pavus,” Lady Hawke said, and Dorian gave a scoffing laugh.

“My dear lady, please, call me Dorian. And beyond that, I _want_ to. That old ruin seems a sight more interesting than digging through all this sand _hoping_ to find the rest of whatever that giant femur belonged to. Besides, it’s giving off such _delightful_ magical energy, I can hardly resist!”

“I can,” said Felix, who had come to join them. He still looked so incredibly pale and thin under the desert sun. “I’m rather more interested in the diameter of this femur we’ve uncovered than in that ruin. I’m no mage, but it reminds me of death and _that_ is an unpleasant thought.”

Dorian looked at his friend, brows drawn up in concern. “If _that’s_ how you feel about it, I can stay -” he began, but Felix shook his head. “Really, Felix, if you’d rather we look at old bones then I say we look at old bones!”

“Really, I’m all right here alone,” Felix insisted, and Lavellan wondered what, in fact, was going on. There was most certainly worry etched upon Dorian’s face for a brief moment.

“Well, if _you_ say so…” There was doubt evident in his voice. “I suppose I will accompany you all to this ruin.”

“I’ll remain here,” said Constable Blackwall, exchanging a look with General Mac Tir. “In case anything goes wrong, you’ll want someone watching your back. If any of Erimond’s friends show up, I’ll know and I’ll stop them from reaching you.”

“I suppose if we are to walk face-first into danger, it is good to know that our rear’s shall be adequately defended,” Hawke said rather too loudly and cheekily. Blackwall gave a choked laugh, and Lavellan felt the twin impulses to laugh as well, but also to cover her face in second-hand embarrassment. “Now, _I_ don’t like Corypheus, the General doesn’t like him, Lady Lavellan _certainly_ doesn’t like him. So let us quit dawdling and see what we can find in Adamant!”

***

It took them little time to prepare, for Dorian seemed ready to join them. It was only a few miles from the excavation up to where the path wound towards Adamant.

Now, here was the strangest thing about their approach to the old fortress - they saw no one and nothing. Not a creature stirred upon the sand dunes. It was all eerily quiet, save for the wind that exhaled upon the desert.

There was something terrible about the ruins, the old fortress jutting up from the rock, spires like broken fingers. A deep unease that seeped outward, unsettling and unnerving, creeping down spines and setting teeth to edge.

Still, they went into Adamant, old and ancient like Skyhold, and it was not until they had crossed the threshold and found the gates firmly shut behind them that they realized that the entirety of the place was full to brimming with _fear_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my very first playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins, my warden (Tabris) ran off with Alistair and they spent the rest of their days warden-ing together. When I imported the save game to Awakening, the import corrupted and registered Alistair as king instead of Anora as queen. _Then_ I imported that same game into DA2 and it registered Alistair as king, Anora as queen, and said that Loghain was alive. Also, it read Tabris as alive and dead at the same time.
> 
> This glitch import save file is 100% of the reason why I started putting Alistair and Anora on the throne together and recruiting Loghain.


	24. In which there are spiders of every shape and size

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there are a lot of spiders in this chapter.

The fortress was silent around them.

It was an eerie quiet, a strange quiet. The air was dead and dull, stale like the structure had been sealed for many years. There was an oddness to everything, like the corner of a box set slightly ajar; everything was off, out of place in a way that made the skin crawl and panic bubble up within the breast.

And in the staleness of the air, there came a familiar scent. Acrid and hot, like inorganic things set to flame. It burned down her throat and filled her lungs, and Lavellan _knew_.

“We have to get out,” she said, one hand catching Lady Hawke’s arm, the other pulling at Dorian’s shirtsleeve. She took a step back even as General Mac Tir turned to case a concerned frown her direction. “We should not be here; this isn’t safe.”

She took another step back, turning towards the door. The air felt hot now, or perhaps it was simply the panic within her chest. It caught at the chambers of her heart, at her lungs, trailing up to her throat like acid. She set her hands to the great handles upon the door and pulled. And then pushed, when they would not give way. And then she brought her hands up to her mouth, dragging them down her face.

“We should not have brought her, if she was going to turn coward over nothing,” General Mac Tir said to Lady Hawke, but her friend was frowning. Beside her, she saw Dorian’s nostrils flare slightly, as though he, too, caught the scent upon the air.

Lavellan set her feet squarely upon the ground, her hands upon her hips. She looked at him sternly.

“Coward, General Mac Tir?” she said, a sharp edge to her words. “No, I am no coward. Perhaps you cannot sense what I can, or do not know what it mean. I _do_. And we are in terrible danger.”

“Something _does_ seem strange,” Lady Hawke mused loudly. She looked up at the cavernous ceiling, as though searching for an answer there. “It’s… _hmmm_.”

“Livius Erimond and Commander Clarel will be here.” General Mac Tir crossed his arms, the deep blue fabric of his coat stretched at the shoulders. “If this is to be a wild hunt -”

“The door is locked, regardless,” Lavellan said, and she began to pace. She felt claws of ice within her gut, little stabbing knives of fear. It was quite an irrational feeling, and she had some sense now as to why it seemed so natural. “Dorian, you are a mage. Can you not sense it?”

Dorian’s brow was furrowed thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, something _does_ seem quite strange. I have the oddest urge to simply flee this room. Not my normal reaction, mind you.”

“It’s fear,” Lavellan said. “I think we’ve stumbled upon a...a place where the Veil is thin, and a creature of fear dwells here.”

General Mac Tir snorted. “This is preposterous.”

“Oh, it _certainly is_ ,” Lady Hawke said, laughing a touch too loudly. “ _Fear_ creatures? Why, I _laugh_ at such thing. They surely don’t exist, and I’m sure they have nothing to do with why I feel as though my stomach has tied itself into a knot. Lavellan, my dear, please tell me this is _anything_ but true, because I’d prefer not to deal with spirits and demons again.”

“ _Again?_ ”

“It’s a long story,” she said as she moved to try the door herself. “Very long. I will tell you it if we get out of this alive. General, could you be a dear and possibly use yourself as a battering ram to get these doors open?”

General Mac Tir gave a long suffering sigh, but a moment later he was frowning with the same consternation as the rest as he attempted to wrench the doors open.

“We’re locked in,” said Lavellan, nervously smoothing her hands over her dress. “I imagine we’ll have to find another way out. Likely by finding and defeating whatever resides here. That was the case last time I was in a similar situation.”

“What a fascinating life you lead, Lavellan,” Dorian remarked. “Spirits and demons are little more than folk legends in most places, and yet here you are, having seen two already!”

“Well, we haven’t seen this one _yet_ ,” she remarked, striding past him and looking out into the cavernous hall. “And if we’re counting _all_ spirits and demons...this would be the fourth. Or fifth, depending on how we’re classifying them. General Mac Tir, you’re _certain_ that Commander Clarel and Lord Erimond are here?”

“Blackwall tracked them here; if he says that they haven’t left, then I trust him.”

Privately, Lavellan mused upon this. When she had met Constable Blackwall in Val Royeaux, she had not realized he was a warden, and she most certainly had not been expecting to find him so far west of the city. What had taken him from his post there, she wondered. Had General Mac Tir’s request to follow Commander Clarel and Lord Erimond truly been that important?

As they began to move into the depths of the fortress, Lavellan considered that must be it. She knew quite well that the matter of Lord Corypheus and his supposed claim to the Divine inheritance was one of great concern to many, in a way that her claim was not. The Tevinter Empire had been a conquering one, one whose influence was still felt centuries after their borders had retreated north, while the dalish were a conquered people with so little power as to be no threat. If Lord Corypheus regained land in the south, there was an immediate threat that, perhaps, all of Tevinter might start to lay claim to lands once held by the empire.

And yet, would they not fear a dalish woman who also began to reclaim territory once owned by her people? Would they not one day, once Lord Corypheus was no longer a player in this game, decide that she was too much a threat? Would they, as they had so many centuries ago, decide that titles and deeds and legal promises meant nothing when the land they wished for was held in dalish hands?

Would her being the supposed heir of Shartan mean any sense of security for herself, or would it simply be a means by which the Orlesians would drag her down? What good was her blood, when it had meant so little hundreds of years ago?

A hand clamped around her arm; she nearly shrieked before she realized it was Lady Hawke.

“I say, this is a miserable place, isn’t it?” There was a strange, nervous tension in her voice. Her fingers drummed against Lavellan’s arm as she walked beside her, arm in arm. “I feel quite as though my bones are about to run away from my skin. Normally I’m not _this_ skittish. Really, this is quite unfair. I wanted a nice desert holiday, but instead I’m prancing around a rotting ruin. I demand I speak to whoever is in charge!”

“I...don’t think that’s going to work,” Lavellan said.

There was, then, a deep sound that resounded through the bones of Adamant. It took her a moment to realize what the sound was; at first, it seemed like the chiming of a large bell. But then she realized it was laughter. She felt an unpleasant pitter-patter in her heart, and the curling of an uneasy anxiety along her cheekbones.

“I say, what was _that?_ ” Dorian’s normally curious tone was strained.

Lavellan knew, but knowing did not matter. The caustic scent upon the air made her stomach turn.

“A demon,” she said, attempting to keep her voice neutral and knowing that she failed terribly. “I told you, we’ve stepped into a place where the Veil is very thin. I think…” She faltered. She felt as though she had learned so much over the past months, but she did not _know_ all things for certain. Doubt crawled within her gut. “It’s old magic.”

“A confluence of magic energy that manifests itself as emotion incarnate,” Dorian murmured, more to himself than to the rest. “ _Remarkable_. It was hypothesized that such things might truly exist, given the amount of ancient lore speaking on the subject, but it all stops before proper scientific documentation was kept.”

“Or the older records were destroyed.”

“I really think it’s just a matter of what you were exposed to,” Lady Hawke said, tugging upon Lavellan’s arm until they walked shoulder to shoulder. “I mean, _I_ had a few run-ins with spirits in my day. Sometimes they were pleasant. Sometimes...less so.”

“There are old accounts of necromantic arts. I wonder - was that someone? Did you see that?”

Lavellan had seen nothing. The hall, save for a few twists and turns, was empty. Old stone covered in slick moss where water had dripped through the roof, but not a soul about.

“What did they look like?” General Mac Tir’s voice seemed overly loud in the otherwise silent hall.

“Well.” Lavellan thought that she detected a slight tremor in Dorian’s voice. “He looked rather like my father.”

The sound of deep laughter echoed through the air again. Lady Hawke quickened her pace, pulling Lavellan forward.

 _What frightened little creatures_ , said a voice, deep as the laughter. It resounded within Lavellan’s mind, as though it came from within rather than without.

She supposed that confirmed her suspicions. To her side, General Mac Tir frowned deeply.

_Look at you, searching for something in my web. Searching, searching - what are you looking for, little rabbit?_

Lavellan felt a thrill run down her spine, a chill fear in each bone. “Did you all hear that?” Her voice was hoarse.

“I heard...something.” Dorian’s voice was strained as well, far more so than she had ever heard. “It was oddly specific.”

“Mine was, as well.” Lady Hawke’s fingers dug into Lavellan’s arm. “Let us find who we’re looking for quickly, shall we? General, where do you - General? Mac Tir?”

There was silence, and when they turned to look where he had been, there was nothing.

“ _Oh_ no.” Lady Hawke let out the words in long, shuddering syllables. “Oh, this is just _rich_. This is just _fantastic_. Lavellan, you’re our resident expert on all things _veil-y_. Please, tell me he just turned down a different hall. Or fell down a trap door. I’d like it if he fell down a trap door.”

It was difficult to search with Lady Hawke attached to her like a limpet, but she toed the ground near where he had been walking. They backtracked down the hall, the three still remaining.

“There’s nothing. I think the man might have simply vanished.” Dorian ran a hand over his face, mussing his perfectly curled moustache. “This place seems positively filled with magical energy. If there is this much magic and the veil, as you say, is exceptionally thin, then perhaps a demon could warp the area.”

“I...maybe. I don’t have experience with this sort of demon,” she said, chewing upon her bottom lip. She pulled Lady Hawke forward, towards a stairwell that curled upwards. “Let’s try this way. We have to search _everywhere_ \- and now we have three people to find.”

So they walked. And they listened. The old fortress seemed so silent, except for the rush of dead air; the stench of must and decay lingered with the caustic scent of magic and demons. As they walked the halls, climbed the stairs, listened to the echoes of laughter that seemed to be only within their own minds.

“This is ridiculous,” Lady Hawke said as they turned yet another corner to find a hall no different than they had left. “We take different routes each time and yet end up in the same place!”

“It’s not _quite_ the same.” Dorian walked a few feet in front of them. The red of his waistcoat seemed unnaturally bright, though it should have been washed dark by the lack of lighting. “There’s something different about the magic here. It’s growing sharper. I do think we’re going in the correct direction. Assuming, of course, we want to find the heart of this place.”

“That’s assuming that Erimond and Clarel are in that heart.” Something green glimmered in the corner of her vision, but when Lavellan turned her head there was nothing there. As she turned back to her chosen path, the edge of her vision blurred slightly, turning green. “Maybe we will find General Mac Tir there as well.

 _And what if you keep going forward and there’s nothing?_ whispered the deep voice. _Everything you’ve done is useless and you will simply wind the same path forever, gaining nothing_.

Lady Hawke snorted. “Is that the best this demon can do?” She seemed unperturbed, but ahead of them Dorian stopped, looking troubled.

“I say, do any of you hear Felix?” he asked.

“No.” Lavellan bit down upon her bottom lip, chewing furiously as she looked about. “Dorian, there’s no one here. It’s merely the demon.”

“It sounds...nevermind.”

 _He’ll disappear, just like the General. I’ll take him away,_ said Fear, a rush of hot breath against her ear. But when she looked, there was nothing there.

“We must keep moving,” she said, and tugged upon Lady Hawke’s arm. “Look, there are stairs again.”

Lavellan eventually dropped Lady Hawke’s arm, the narrow nature of the stairs forcing them to go single file. The acrid smell grew greater, and the walls grew slick with something oily that reflected green in the corners of her vision.

As they walked, Dorian began to lag further and further behind. As they neared the top of the tall stairs, he paused, several steps behind them.

“Well,” he said suddenly, looking forward as though Lavellan was not there. “That was well played, demon. Absolutely top-notch, if obvious. Really, you can do better than visions of my father. Dreadful thing, really, but rather surface fears. Find something I haven’t dealt with, will you?”

 _Oh, I will_ , said the voice of Fear, and suddenly the steps dropped away, taking Dorian with them.

“ _Dorian!_ ”

Lavellan managed to grab Lady Hawke’s hand just before she fell as well. Around them, the fortress creaked and screamed, shifting. The stench of magic and fear grew stronger still.

“Please, pull me up darling,” Lady Hawke said, and Lavellan heaved her up onto solid ground. “This is the most unpleasant excursion I’ve been on since Kirkwall.”

“This place is trying to separate us,” Lavellan said, feeling anxiety flicker stronger still in her chest.

“It’s doing a very good job at it, too.” Lady Hawke brushed her hands along her trousers; her fingers trembled slightly. “To what purpose, I wonder?”

“Fear is harder to conquer alone, perhaps.” Lavellan remembered her encounters with Envy and with Pride, the way that each demon had hungered and wanted, how they fed upon others. “Demons are emotional creatures; the greater we fear, the greater this demon becomes. Or, at least, that is a possibility.”

 _Smart little rabbit,_ said the voice. Lavellan felt something brush against her legs and the scuttle of legs, though she saw nothing. _I can smell Envy upon you, and the bite of Pride. You must be quite something to escape them both. But I can see the fear inside of you - of failure, of the unknown. Of death and loss. I can take them all from you, as I took them before._

Lavellan’s eyes flew wide.

“What did it say?” asked Lady Hawke. “You’ve gone positively _grey_. It must have been something quite frightening.”

“I think...I think it knows me,” she said, her mouth dry. The demon laughed and the sound of scuttling legs grew loud for a moment before fading. She shuddered, then shook herself more, trying to throw off the splinters of panic in her chest. When that failed, she pushed herself forward with renewed purpose.

“We have to find Dorian,” she insisted, rounding the next corner to find the same hall, yet with strange fissures lacing the walls.

“And General Mac Tir.” Lady Hawke was two steps behind her. “ _Oh_ , look. Decorating in green. A good choice; I _do_ like green. It’s not quite as lovely as blue, but not all spirits decorate the same, I suppose. Honestly, how _could_ we lose both Mr. Dorian and the General in such a short timespan? And without even finding Commander Clarel or Erimond. It’s as though - why are you stopping again?”

Lavellan had come to an abrupt stop, so quickly that Lady Hawke nearly walked into her. Her mouth had gone quite suddenly dry, her tongue thick and useless. She felt her heart drum within her chest, so fast she thought it might burst forth into flight. The flickers in the corner of her vision had solidified, taking deliberate shape.

“S-spiders,” she managed, and Lady Hawke looked at her as though she was out of her mind.

“ _What_ spiders? I don’t see any spiders.”

But there _were_ spiders. Lavellan could see them quite clearly now. Small spiders, medium spiders, spiders large as her hand and large as her head and even larger still. They crawled within the corners of the room, along the ceiling, trails of them all running in the same direction. What she had mistaken for dampness upon the walls she now saw was spider silk gleaming in the low light - freshly spun threads that coated everything.

“I-I’m terrified of spiders,” she heard herself say, though just barely. Her blood rushed so swiftly that it drowned out almost all other sound save for the skitter of spider legs. She should not have been able to hear spiders, not unless they were so nightmarishly large as to -

“Look at me,” she heard then. She blinked and saw Lady Hawke before her. “There are _no_ spiders. Look at me - would I lie to you?”

“Yes,” she said baldly, and Lady Hawke laughed. But her laughter was awkward, trailing off as she looked to the side.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, and she had gone so terribly still. “Oh _no_.” She took a step away from Lavellan, staring down one of the corridors. “Oh, please, not you. Bethany -”

She seemed distant, in the grip of the nightmare as Lavellan had been moments ago. And so Lavellan reached for her, to pull her back. She grabbed her hand, and the moment she touched the other woman’s skin she saw - the slim figure of a shambling creature, a woman with who looked so very much like Lady Hawke, though her face was younger and her hair was shorter and lacking in loose curls. But there was something odd about her torso, her chest hollowed out in where it should not have been, and there was blood staining her dress.

Lavellan realized with a gasp that the woman’s ribs were crushed, her spine broken.

“She’s not real, Hawke,” she said, tugging upon her hand. “This is all an illusion.”

_Is it? Didn’t you fail everyone, little bird?”_

Lady Hawke stumbled backwards, as did Lavellan, and it seemed as though they tripped over _something_. She looked down, and there lay the body of a young man - eyes fever bright, veins thick with black blood, lips grey as he gasped for breath.

“This _didn’t happen_ ,” Lady Hawke managed, but she had turned ashen, looking little better than the man upon the ground. “Carver - _Carver_ , I know you’re all right, we saved you -”

_Cannot even keep a promise, can you, little bird? They might not have died, but did they end up any better? Can you honestly say that you truly saved anyone? Anyone at all?_

“Shut up,” whispered Lady Hawke.

But Fear had gotten beneath her skin, it had caught at something she held in her heart and in her mind. It coiled and wriggled within her, and Lavellan could see it behind her eyes.

 _Hmmm, what shall we see next? You know how each of them will die, because they will_ always _die. They will die, and it will be all your fault, little bird. Miss Isabela and Mr. Fenris will die, and Mr. Anders will die, and Miss Merrill -_

“ _Shut up!_ ” This Lavellan yelled, up at the unseen horror that had been stalking them. “Don’t you dare! I know what you are, demon! You feed upon are fears, but all you do is spin a false image of what we don’t wish to see!”

_Aaaaah, and you. A little, insignificant rabbit, playing at being a lion. What do you think will happen to you when the other lions realize you are nothing more than prey? They’ll skin you and spread your bones upon Halamshiral, like they did with your ancestors._

Lavellan gave a small shriek of laughter; fear tried to fill her lungs, but she would not allow it. “Tell me something I do not know,” she said. “I have known that since the first day I stepped into Skyhold. I have known that since the day I was born. You’ll have to do _better_.”

 _Oh, that will not be hard_. And Fear laughed in the rafters above her.

There was something around her feet. Something tugging, binding, pulling. She looked down and her eyes went wide, her bravado falling away as panic surfaced. For Fear knew her most primal fear, and she saw spiders spinning their webs at her feet, twining silk around her ankles, and then those long lines _pulled_ -

She fell, shrieking. Lady Hawke caught at her hands, trying to catch her - their fingers linked, muscles straining.

“Don’t let me go,” she said, as the spider silk dragged at her. She felt white hot fear boil within her chest, splintering outward. “Don’t, please don’t -”

“I’m not going to,” said Lady Hawke, but her fingers slipped, her fingers slipped and Lavellan was pulled away.

***

Here was fear, coiled cot and tight within her chest. It drew up her throat, danced along her cheeks. It bloomed in her ears, turning everything silent save for the rush of blood within her own mind. Silk filled her mouth; it twined around her ankles and her wrists. She felt confined, trapped both by the webbing and by her own panic.

She knew, dimly, that she truly was panicking too much, but reason did little to calm her heart. This was Fear, this was Nightmare - oh, but she knew it, knew she had been drawn within its heart even before she opened her eyes.

And when she did, when she fought past the panic and the fear that suffused every limb, she saw that she was suspended in a room filled with webbing. The dark heart of the nightmare, filled to brimming with cobwebs that stretched from corner to corner. The green glow crackled everywhere, and she thought _this is where the veil is thin, this is where things seep through_.

 _You cannot get out_ , said a soft, familiar voice, and she looked down to see a boy with flaxen hand sitting upon the ground. _You’re part of the nightmare now. It won’t let you go_.

“Cole?” she rasped, her tongue thick in her mouth. Little filaments of silk glistened in the light, a diadem upon his brow. He turned his head up; his eyes were black.

 _You’re going to die,_ he said. _Alone, forgotten, fear everywhere around you. Stronger than iron, you’re held here. Like all the rest._

“You’re not helping,” she said, looking down at him, at the rags that held his body together, at the cobwebs and bone. The black, black eyes. “And you’re not Cole.”

He looked up at her and opened his mouth. Lips peeled back to reveal yellowed teeth, and past those teeth another row, and another. His wrists were bones.

She looked away. Out into the rest of the room, at the webs that turned it into little more than a nest. Despair gnawed upon her feet, upon her legs, and she knew what it was that had taken Cole’s form.

She was not the only one here, she realized after a moment as she tried to push herself past the fear and despair that ate at her. Other bodies, strung up in the webbing, caught frozen in the nightmare. She wondered, briefly, if this is what it truly looked like, or if her own fear of spiders had caused this.

Fear had certainly picked the correct fear to fashion the nightmare from, she thought, for it paralyzed her, kept her from moving. Kept her heart racing within her chest and cold panic blooming with her cheeks until it threatened to blind her.

She shut her eyes.

How. How could she fight past this, this fear that was written into her very bones? One she had never been able to defeat, turned into the stuff of nightmares? She could not reason through this, not when she wanted to scream and cry and give up.

 _Should I take it away?_ she heard Fear say, so close, so very close. _Should I take it all away? I can, you know. Strip it away again. You won’t have to fear anymore_.

It was tempting. So very tempting. To allow the fear to be pulled away. To say yes.

No more fear. She thought it sounded wonderful. And yet.

 _And yet what?_ Fear whispered.

And yet what would happen, if she had no more fear? Would it leave her hollow and empty? Would, perhaps, something else rise up to take its place? Would pride fill her, would despair? What would happen, should she let a demon strip away an emotion?

What had this demon taken before? _When_ had it taken something from her?

“No,” she whispered. “You cannot have my fear. And I want the fear back that you stole before.”

The threads holding her cracked. She plummeted to the ground, landing softly on her feet. It felt like a dream; it felt a nightmare.

 _Do you truly want it back?_ Fear asked, singing in her ear. _Are you sure?_

“Yes,” she said, and she opened her eyes.

She saw, across from her, two bodies tangled in webbing. Covered almost entirely, save for their faces. One a small, greasy weasel of a man, the other a woman, her hair no more than white stubble upon her head. She saw, through the spider silk, the corner of a deep blue jacket.

Lavellan drew in a sharp breath. “I...remember you,” she said. “ _Clarel_.”

She reached out and grasped hold of the cobwebs that bound the woman, just as surely as she had been bound a moment before.

Commander Clarel opened her eyes.

“ _You_ ,” she said, as the nightmare fell away from her. “I know _you_.”

_Do you really wish to remember?_

Fear slid around her shoulders; it tugged at her hair and pulled at her skin, trying to slip down her throat and choke her. Commander Clarel reached out, gloved hands still covered in spider silk, and she touched her face.

“Yes,” said Lavellan. “I _do_.”

Green bloomed in her vision, clouded her sight, and then there was a door. An exquisitely carved door, and a woman standing before her.

“The Grand Duchess will see you now,” said the woman, a lisp in her voice. Lavellan smiled, though she felt so very nervous, so very uncertain. She stepped past her, through the now open door.

It was a lavish room that lay before her - a bedroom, which was not where she had expected to meet the Grand Duchess Divine. Heavy drape covered the windows save for a sliver of light which sliced through the room, and the air was heavy with the smell of sickness and the smell of wax candles.

“I cannot abide by the smell of gas lamps,” said a voice which surprised her in its strength. Her eyes went wide as her gaze turned to the large bed at the center of the room, heavily embroidered curtains drawn back to reveal a frail body tucked within.

“Y-your Grace,” she found herself stammering, dropping low into a curtsey. As Keeper Deshana had instructed.

“Now, now, none of that,” came the woman’s voice, thick with accent and age. “Come closer, my child. Let me look at you, while my eyes can still see.”

She walked forward, limbs heavy as she was drawn through the memory. The woman in the bed was old, very old. Her face was deeply lined, a lifetime of emotion etched upon her skin. She lay propped up against embroidered pillows, her hair covered by a lace cap. Upon the thick coverlet, Lavellan saw her thin hands, skin stretched tight over bone, age spotted upon the back in freckles and spots.

“You are the daughter of the Lavellan clan, are you not?” the Grand Duchess asked as she came to her side.

“I am, your grace.” Her words felt ashy and dry within her mouth, light as though they had already been spoken once before.

The old woman looked at her, eyes searching her face. She did not know what for. But she must have found it, for the skin at the corners of her mouth relaxed, her face more open than before.

“I suppose you are wondering why you have been summoned here. To the bedside of an old woman who you have never before met.” She gave a small, dry laugh, as though she had said something of private amusement. “There is little time; would that you had come sooner, but such things cannot be helped.”

“We...were not certain what to make of your letter,” she admitted. The letter was tucked within her bodice, presses against her breast. She had little left, aside from that slim sheaf of paper and a few other things taken from home. “My clan was hesitant to send me.”

“An unsurprising sentiment, if unfortunate. Your people have little reason to trust a noble of Orlais. This is something I wish to rectify. Given me your hand, daughter of Lavellan.”

She felt apprehension well up within her, though she allowed the old woman to take her hand. Again, she seemed to be searching for something.

“I have no heir upon which to bestow my title; this is known by many,” said the Grand Duchess, holding Lavellan’s hand loosely. “They swarm, like vultures, waiting upon my decision as to who I will name. Surely someone of high orlesian birth, they think. Perhaps I will cede my land to the Empress, or to one of her cousins. But that is not what I will do.”

“I...don’t understand.”

The Grand Duchess smiled. “I decided something, in my final days, when I realized there was no proper heir. The land which I call mine - do you know who it belongs to?”

It _must_ be a trick, she thought, but she lifted her chin and looked defiantly at the Grand Duchess.

“It is the land of the dalish,” she said. “You humans took it from us, centuries ago, after it was promised to us. After it was _ours_ , but you decided that you wanted it back. It was Lord Shartan’s, it was his family and the other families - those who our clans are now named after. You cast us out and told us it was never ours to begin with, and you burned our records and we were left without a homeland once again.”

She could not contain the bitterness in her words, but the Grand Duchess only nodded.

“That is the truth of it,” she said, and the admittance shocked her. She could not fathom an orlesian noble saying this. “Now, will you hand me the papers that sit upon my bedside table? They are of utmost importance in this.”

Lavellan removed her hand from the Grand Duchess’ and picked up a set of several old, yellowed papers, one obviously newer sitting upon the top.

“I have decided,” she said as she took the papers from her, “that I will return the lands to the heir of Shartan. That is who should rightfully hold them.”

“But -!” Lavellan could not stop the word bursting forth. She stilled herself, swallowing before speaking again. “We do not know who that might be. All our records from then, they have been lost.”

Grand Duchess Divine tapped the papers in her hand. “Not all.” Now, I asked you hear because -”

There was a desperate pounding upon the door, and before the Grand Duchess could speak it flew open. An older woman burst in, her hair shorn short, lines upon her face.

“Your Grace, I apologize, but you must know. We are discovered -” She pulled up short, looking to Lavellan. “Is this her?”

“I believe so.” Her face had become drawn and pale. “There is no time - I thought this might happen. They will not accept this, not unless you can gain support, not unless you can prove yourself - take this, my child.” She pressed a thin envelope into her hand. “Until this can be resolved fully, until you are able to stand before the orlesian courts, this must be yours. Take Skyhold, for it was once a dear place to your people. Clarel, these must stay in your keeping, for you shall keep them safest.”

“But -”

There were footsteps upon the stair, loud, foreboding. The Grand Duchess took her hand again, sliding something cold and metallic upon her finger. A ring - _the_ ring.

“Clarel, you must go,” the Grand Duchess insisted. “Take the will, take the genealogy. Keep them safe until Lavellan may make use of them. And you, my child - take that letter and that ring. Now _go_!”

She found herself pulled from the room - Commander Clarel gripped her wrist, and they turned down the hall, away from the footsteps. But she could still hear a voice - loud, deep, frightening. And she felt the pull of a demon there as well, of what she knew now was Fear.

“Where is the will? I demand it,” she heard Corypheus say, and the rest of the conversation was drowned out by the pounding in her ears, the confusion of what had occurred. And then Fear had swept everything within the estate, taking it all from her.

And she opened her eyes.

“Can you make use of them now?” Commander Clarel said, still caught by the spider webs, but Lavellan saw now that she held a thick envelope in her hands, offering it to her.

Lavellan’s heart still battered within her chest, still uncertain, still not sure what course her life was now upon. But she nodded, and Commander Clarel pressed the papers into her hands.

“You cannot defeat Fear,” she said, “and those who have been here too long will never leave. Lord Corypheus sent Erimond with the demon, to trap those of us who would keep such things from his master. Find your friends and go; I will hold this demon here.”

Lavellan took the envelope and tucked it within her bodice; she could not lose this, not when it held everything she hoped for.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and Commander Clarel nodded.

 _No!_ howled Fear, but as Lavellan turned away, so did Commander Clarel turn to the source of that sound, and in the corner of her eye Lavellan saw a great creature with many eyes and many legs.

She looked away.

There, in the room - the other bodies. She saw them, wrapped in silk and fear. There was Dorian, and beside him Lady Hawke. And beside her General Mac Tir.

She ignored the fear in her heart and in her mind as best she could; she ran to them and pulled at the webbing that held them. Despair tried to claw at her, but she filled herself with purpose instead.

One by one, she pulled them free of the nightmare, until they opened her eyes, until they stood on their feet.

“We _must_ go,” she insisted. “ _Come_.”

And so they ran.

As fear could paralyze, so could it give cause to flight. They ran, out of the room, away from the nightmare.

“That was most terribly unpleasant!” Dorian said, running before them. “Please remind me never to follow you into dank, miserable ruins!”

“I shall keep that in mind!” Lavellan caught her skirts up in her hands to run faster. Beside her, Lady Hawke kept pace. “Is everyone all right? Or - is everyone alive?”

“Both are the silliest of questions.” Even now, Lady Hawke laughed. “I should think the answers obvious! Oh! Turn left, I saw light!”

But as she turned left, Dorian turned right. Again, the separated - and before Lady Hawke and Lavellan the nightmare reared up once more.

 _You will not leave here_ , Fear snarled. _I will keep you here forever_.

It lunged forward, many legs reaching for them. Lady Hawke pushed Lavellan back, and the thing descended upon only her.

“ _Hah_ ,” she said, looking up at the demon. “I supposed it would end like this, really. Please, do make your best try. I’m quite ready.”

As it descended upon her, all gibbering horror and dripping mandibles, someone moved. Someone threw themselves before her, and instead of Lady Hawke, the creature sank it’s claws into General Mac Tir, drawing him towards its great maw.

Lady Hawke shrieked; she threw herself after him, grabbing his arms, digging her feet into the ground. She strained against Fear, against the nightmare; she held fast to him, trying to keep him from slipping away.

“General, don’t you dare let go!” Hawke’s voice was strangled, her usual bravado nearly gone. “You _know_ I don’t like losing people, and believe it or not, it would be a shame to lose you! So if you let go, I shall jump back down into this pit of fear and I will drag you out, so help me!”

But Fear was a strong thing, and it had sunk its claws deep into the General. Though she held fast to his hand, moment by moment he was slipping back into the abyss at the heart of Adamant.

“I’ve already lived a long life. Of all of us -”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Lady Hawke tightened her grip upon his hand, bringing her second hand to wrap around his wrist. “Just hold on, you old curmudgeon. I absolutely _forbid_ you to die!”

A little whisper of fear coiled up, twisting around their joined hands. Spider threads, poison that seeped. _When has forbidding someone to die every worked for you?_ Fear said, and a shudder ran through her entire body.

“Lavellan!” Her voice was a shriek, her feet slipping as Fear tugged at the two of them. “Don’t let me lose him!”

Lavellan darted down the stairs; she caught Lady Hawke around her waist, holding her fast. Still, Fear pulled them forward, their feet scrabbling for purchase upon the worn floor.

“ _Hawke_ ,” said General Mac Tir as Fear ate at his feet and his legs and his torso. “Let me go. I’m living on borrowed time no matter how you look at it; I should I have died ten years ago.”

“ _Bull shit_ ,” said Hawke. Fear coiled up her arm and wound around her waist. It tugged and her feet slipped out from under her; she and Lavellan both tumbled to the ground. Lavellan reached out with one arm, searching for _anything_ to anchor them, but there was nothing.

“Damn you, Hawk! Let _go!_ I’m a warden - I always expected to die like this!” There was anger in his voice now. “Don’t make me responsible for any more deaths than are already on my head!”

“If I had dealt with Corypheus before - _Loghain!_ ”

Lady Hawke’s shriek echoed through the broken old fortress, for General Mac Tir’s hand had slid from his glove - or, perhaps, he had allowed it to happen. But his hand slipped away from Lady Hawke’s and Fear, no longer hampered in its efforts, coiled around him fully and pulled him away from them.

“Get up! Hawke, you must _get up!_ ” There was not a moment to lose, for Fear would never be satisfied with only one mind to consume. Lavellan heaved them both to their feet, grabbing Lady Hawke’s hand and tugging sharply. They stumbled up the stairs together, hand in hand. Lavellan’s chest felt constricted, the envelope Commander Clarel had given her pressing against her ribs, making everything tighter still. They ran and they ran, up the stairs, until there was no where left to run. Behind them, the nightmare grew greater still, and she thought she heard General Mac Tir shout.

And then there was the shattering of glass and light cut through their bleak world; they tumbled down and down, hand in hand, and the entire world fell away.

***

“Boss? Boss, come on, now’s no time to take a nap.”

“Oh, come now, you great lump. Have you never heard of beauty sleep? It’s very important. In fact, you should let us _all_ get some, before we have to walk back through this horrid desert. It isn’t even a _proper_ desert. It should be _much_ warmer, for one. And I’d prefer an oasis. Fans. Possibly someone feeding me grapes.”

“Should I be taking notes?”

Slowly, Lavellan opened her eyes. The sun seemed harsh, blinding even. But she blinked against it, looking up to see the wide, open face of Captain Bull.

“Welcome back, Boss,” he said, and he offered her a large hand. She took it, allowing him to pull her upright.

“What happened?” she said, feeling so utterly strange and exhausted. Her throat felt raw, as though she had screamed or cried for hours. There was sand beneath her fingernails and in her hair.

“Weird demon shit,” said Bull, and Dorian gave a sharp laugh. “Dorian here got out first; it’s a good thing we had someone watching Adamant, or we might not have known something had gone wrong. Not until the fortress came down, at least.”

Lavellan’s eyes went wide and she turned upon her heels, uncertain of what she would find.

Behind her, Adamant lay in wreckage, half collapsed and filled with sand as though the desert had attempted to swallow it. The gaping entrance was covered entirely; it looked now as though there would never again be a way inside.

Several feet away, Lady Hawke sat upon a fallen stone block, staring out at what remained of Adamant. Beside her stood Constable Blackwall, his arms crossed over his chest, looking great and imposing. But as she moved, he turned, looking back at her. His brows rose; there was something very soft and open in his face.

“My lady,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“I am.” She smiled at him, but her attention turned swiftly to Lady Hawke. Her shoulders were bowed, her head rested in her hands. Her shirt, which had once been white, was streaked with red dust from the desert and black soot from the nightmare. “Lady Hawke?”

“He’s still in there,” she said, and there was something incredibly mournful and lost in her voice. “What an absolute _fool_.”

“He was a brave man,” said Constable Blackwall, looking out at the ruin. “He knew his duty.”

“Duty _killed_ him.”

Constable Blackwall’s head tipped; he looked down at Lady Hawke where she sat. “He was a warden, Lady Hawke. As was Commander Clarel.”

Lavellan stepped forward. She set a hand upon Lady Hawke’s shoulder; her friend reached up and covered her fingers with her own. “And what does that mean, Constable? That they were wardens?”

This close, she could see how worn his face was, the way his skin was weathered by the sun, the imperfections around his eyes and the lines that cut over his cheeks. The grey in his beard and hair glinted silver in the sun.

She wondered, again, what had happened in the months since she first met him that had aged him so.

He looked to her, arms still crossed. There was red dust upon his coat. “A warden is a promise,” he said. “To protect, to be the ones to put ourselves before others when things go wrong. So that no one ever need know about the stranger parts of our world. Loghain and Clarel knew that. They did their duty; they should be celebrated, not mourned.”

Lady Hawke gave a heavy sigh. Her fingers squeezed Lavellan’s.

“I still wish we could have saved him,” she said, very softly, and then she rose, dusting sand from her clothing. “Come, let us leave this place.”

As they turned from the wreckage, Lavellan placed her hand over her chest, feeling the edge of the envelope Commander Clarel had given her, still securely hidden within her clothing.

***

It was night. The air off the desert dunes was dry but not biting; no strong gusts to buffet them, no strong sheets of sand to catch at their skin or in their hair, to scrub at them until they were worn thin.

But that was how Lavellan felt; she felt raw and worn, like that desert sand had scraped her skin until it was barely there. She felt wrung out, like every part of her hand been coiled tight and then let loose. The echoes of a sob hung within her breast, the soft sigh of tears and terrors left behind.

The papers sat within their thick envelop upon her lap; she had not allowed them to be taken far from her. She knew what she held here, knew its importance. Justinia Divine’s will, the final version which stated that the last living descendent of Shartan would be granted all lands and titles formerly held by the Grand Duchess. Her own name, written there, along with the genealogies which, when paired with the own she still retained from her clan, would solidify her claim.

The gravity of what she held before her did not escape her; nor did the weight of the ring upon her finger and Mr. Solas’ words from the night he had left. But what she remembered more than all that was the Fear demon as it spoke of how, one day, her bones would be broken and spread upon Halamshiral. Orlais would not long allow one of the dalish to be raised so high.

And yet. _And yet_.

Her fingers curled around the edges of the envelope. She did not shake. The shuddering sob that still clung within her and the rawness of her throat remained, but did not bind her. She held in her hands a _possibility_.

Beside her sat Lady Hawke, looking as worn out as she felt. Her hair was loose, her feet bare upon the sand. But the moonlight clung to her hair and to her jaw, and the firelight burnished her finger and cheeks to copper and gold. She had been quiet since Bull and Constable Blackwall had pulled them from the wreckage of Adamant.

“It’s all bravado, you know,” she said suddenly, her voice little more than a whisper. “Everything about me is built upon lies and broken promises.”

Lavellan tipped her head to look at her, seeing as though for the first time how deep the circles beneath her eyes were, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes. She was older than Lavellan was by several years, but she had not realized it until this moment, not truly.

“Are all the things Mr. Tethras wrote about you lies?” she asked, for she had been curious of this for some time. Lady Hawke drew in a short breath, then exhaled long and low.

“No,” she said. “And yes. He burnished off all of the corners and sharp edges, and turned tangled webs into tangible shapes. The Hawke he wrote was an idea, and ideal. But she was also the best of me - and the worst. Just as all of us that he wrote were.” She picked at a piece of lint upon the blanket that she had draped upon her shoulders. “We were never as vibrant as he made us seem. Possibly we were so very flawed, though. But I…” She laughed, then tipped her head back. The light of the fire slide along her throat. “Fear made me remember my failures. How insignificant your successes seem in comparison.”

“But your brother and sister...they didn’t die.”

Still looking up, Lady Hawke smiled. There was little warmth in it, only sadness, only amusement at her own perceived flaws. “But my mother did. My father did. And I never was able to protect Carver and Bethany, not truly. I couldn’t protect any of the rest of them either.”

“Maybe,” Lavellan said softly, carefully, turning her gaze back to the fire, “you were never supposed to protect them. Maybe they were supposed to protect themselves.”

Beside her, Lady Hawke made a choking sound. It took Lavellan a moment to realize that it was laughter.

“It would be just like me to have thought of everything wrong all of this time,” she said, bowing forward and pushing her hands up into her hair. She stared at the fire for a long moment. “Maybe I was only supposed to love them.”

Lady Hawke had, Lavellan thought, a very large heart.

They sat in silence for some time as the fire crackled before them and the rest of the camp was quiet save for the murmur of those few still awake. She heard what sounded like Bull’s loud laughter in the distance, followed by the pitch of Dorian’s voice, though she could not tell what was said.

“Lavellan? Can I ask you something?” Lady Hawke said after a time, still bowed forward, her heavy hair falling over her shoulders and onto her knees. “Your artist. The one you loved, who left. If he had offered, would you have said yes?”

Lavellan felt a hard lump in her throat grow. She knew what Lady Hawke meant. Above her, stars spread out like a blanket embroidered in silver; the sky seemed very high above her, and she felt, oddly enough, very small. “Yes,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I would have.”

She could just barely see Lady Hawke’s face, for the fire now cast strange shadows upon her skin and all the rest of her seemed cloaked in night. “Even though he’s only a poor artist, and you the heir to all of the Dales?”

“Even though he’s only a poor artist,” she echoed. She pulled her blanket more tightly around her. There was a deep, hollow cold in her chest, even as the chill of the desert night seemed in from outside. “I never minded that he was of different station. I would have said yes, regardless of all else, if he had asked.”

“Oh,” said Lady Hawke. She was quiet for a moment. “That’s dreadfully romantic.”

Lavellan thought of Mr. Solas and how the rain ran down his face; she thought of the touch of his hand upon her waist. “I suppose it is. Though I’m afraid my sense of romantics is somewhat damaged by him leaving so rudely.”

Lady Hawke leaned forward, hunching her blanket around her shoulders. “Perhaps he will come back,” she said softly. “They sometimes do. More often than you would expect.”

Lavellan gave a rather unladylike snort. “I thought you said that _love was shit_?”

Lady Hawke laughed, throwing her head back. Her unbound hair was a curtain of black. “Oh, but it is. But sometimes they _do_ come back. Sometimes it takes three years and they still never say they love you, and sometimes when they come back it’s with an entire army out for their blood. Occasionally, they’ll actually return the reading material they borrowed. But they _do_ come back. They come back, and you love them, and all that time apart melts away.”

There was a smile upon Lady Hawke’s mouth; her profile in the darkness was turned golden by the fire. She was quite beautiful, with her brown skin and her black hair and her great curved nose.

“And what if they stay?” Lavellan asked her, for it seemed that, perhaps, this beautiful woman might know.

“Ah,” said Lady Hawke, and her smile turned sad, the edges wilting. “When they stay, it’s wonderful, and sometimes you think you are the only thing in the world that matters. But then you realize that they have their revolutions, and they were never the sort of person who could put you before the world. And you have to decide if you’re the sort of person who holds love highest, or if there are things more important in the world.”

Lavellan looked away from Lady Hawke and into the fire as it spit ash and spark up into the night sky. She was not certain if she felt any better for her friend’s words.

“So, what are you going to do now, my dear Lady Lavellan?” Lady Hawke said softly, and Lavellan thought for a moment, contemplating all that she _could_ do.

“I’m going to go to the courts in Val Royeaux,” she said, her voice at first soft, then slowly gaining in strength. “I am going to meet Lord Corypheus’ challenge of my inheritance. The Orlesian courts might not care that I am descended from Shartan if that was all I came to them with, but I have Grand Duchess Divine’s final will. If all goes well then, perhaps, that will be enough to finally bring this legal matter to an end.”

 

 


	25. Interlude the Second: Summer

 

_Dear Mr. Aclassi,_

_Your letter from the Western Approach was the best thing I’ve read this entire week. I’m not joking in the slightest; the rest of my reading was all of the “inventory and supply” variety. Not very fun, let me tell you._

_I wish I’d been able to see those dragon bones you described! Captain Bull’s drawing likely did them justice, but I’m sure they were even better in person. Did that professor_ really _run out of his tent in the middle of the night in his underclothes proclaiming that he’d properly identified the creature while he dreamed, or was that just a story you made up to amuse me?_

_Not that I think you’re making up stories for me! I just wish I had some of my own. Here things are always the same. It’s just helping with the sheep and helping with the shop and sometimes reading Mr. Tethras’ newest chapter ~~and my mother always bringing up a new potential~~_

_Someday. Someday, I’m going to get out of Haven for good. Or so I keep saying. It will happen._

_Speaking of Haven, when will you be returning? Before summer’s over, I hope!_

_Keep safe from all those dragons!_

_Miss Harding_

_***_

_My Lady of Skyhold,_

_Rumors have reached my ears that are both a great shock and a potential blessing. Rumors, of course, relating to your lineage._

_That I contact you should be be a cause of concern; I have my methods of acquiring such information, and it was hard found indeed. That others beyond myself know, I cannot be certain, but rest assured that your secret will be safe with me for as long as you wish it._

_Indeed, it is this secret which draws my interest, and, in fact, should draw the interest of all who claim to be of the blood of the Dales. There have been none in recent history with a claim to the land such as yours. Or, at least, none with the social connections necessary to use that claim to its advantage._

_I extend you an offer, then, as one who would see some semblance of order and equality restored to those who were once of the Dales - I have eyes and ears within the court, and I understand the intricacies and intrigues in a way that few others do. Should you wish it, I can assist your future endeavours._

_Should wish it, send a response with this messenger and I will arrange for a meeting._

_I await your correspondence,_

_B_

_***_

_Lady Lavellan of Skyhold,_

_You are summoned to the courts of Val Royeaux upon the fifth day of the month of Molioris. Maker willing, the matter of the will of Grand Duchess Justinia Divine shall be resolved._

***

A clipping cut from a newspaper:

_In a surprise ruling which is certain to be contentious, the entirety of the late Grand Duchess Justinia Divine’s holdings are to be given to Lady Lavellan of Skyhold. The ruling comes after months of debate as to who held the greatest claim to her inheritance with no blood relative coming forward._

_A final version of the Grand Duchess’ will has been verified with the Orlesian court today, which bestowed the entirety of the Dales, as well as the title of Grand Duchess, upon Lady Lavellan. Though many expected the Empress to strike down this decision, perhaps favoring instead Lord Corypheus of Tevinter or her own cousin, Grand Duke Gaspard, she said instead this:_

“ _Lady Lavellan of Skyhold, now Grand Duchess of Dales, has been formally received by the throne. We have found her claim to be legitimate, and will support the will of Grand Duchess Justinia Divine in its entirety.”_

 _This announcement brings about many questions, the first and foremost being: who_ is _Duchess Lavellan, and why was she chosen by the late Grand Duchess to be her successor?_

_***_

A fragment of a letter:

 _Did you see? Did you_ see? _I had wondered who would find themselves in the role of head of the College of Magi in the wake of all those protests and reforms. Did I not say that it would be someone who’s spine way made of pure steel? Did I not say that only someone who knew how to play the Game in it’s finest would be able to claim the title of Grand Enchanter of the entirety of the college? Truly, it should come as no shock to you that Vivienne de Fer is now Grand Enchanter of all mages? And what a fine choice! She has always played so gracefully. Perhaps we shall see true changes in how magic is received now!_

_***_

_Hey Your Grace-in-ness Duchess Lady_

_There once was a man from Verchiel_

_Who was pompous and though work was menial_

_So he cut a few corners_

_And thanks to a couple of warner-s_

_I started this badly, this rhyme is shite_

_Just look into this guy. Verchiel’s near your land, right?_

_Might have a few bodies hidden in his factory_

_Should get a boot shoved up his rectory._

_***_

_My Dearest Brother,_

_For one with little taste for the Game, you have made quite interesting moves as of late. Ingratiating yourself with the new Duchess of Dales? Inviting her to various salons and parties, and being certain to be seen with her upon your arm at each opportunity? Why, my dear brother, one would almost think that you had realized the advantages of such a match._

_The courts will only love such a thing for so long, and Dales is such a pitiful thing. She is new to politics, and while I would not say that a marriage between the Grand Duke of Lydes and the Duchess - or, dare we now say, the_ Grand _Duchess - of Dales would be exceedingly advantageous, I will point out what you must already know - such a pairing would certain consolidate power in the south._

 _Or perhaps it is not_ you _who seeks such an engagement. After all, she seems to be near to you as often as you are near to her. She is a dull creature, but not without some wit, and she may have thought the same as you or I. It may be good to be wary of how the wind blow, dearest brother, for while you play a fine soldier, the court has never been your home. It would be a shame if someone such as this_ Lavellan _were to out play you._

_Do write some time. It is also a shame when I go too long without hearing from you._

_Your devoted sister,_

_Florianne_

_***_

An unaddressed letter, delivered and opened:

_It pains me to hear that your plans have failed, though you will recall that I warned you of this eventuality when first you began this. All may not be lost, though perhaps you may wish to consider a different approach._

_For now, come home._

_M_

***

A crumple, unsent letter:

_My heart_

~~_I am_ ~~

~~_If only things_ ~~

~~_There are things which I wish I_ ~~

[three lines scratched out so harshly they are unreadable]

_I am sorry._

 


	26. In which Grand Enchanter Vivienne hosts a symposium on magic

The invitation had said that the symposium would start at seven o’clock, but even as the minute hand upon the clock neared the twelve, Grand Duchess Lavellan of Dales wondered that this would hold true. Though she had found her seat quite early on, the room was only partially filled. While she knew that Grand Enchanter Vivienne de Fer detested lateness, she also guessed that she would find a delay so as to allow the room to fill acceptable.

When Vivienne had invited Lavellan to her symposium upon modern magical theory and research, she had hardly been able to say no. Though Cumberland was a slight bit further from home, Lavellan had found that a trip north was not at all a problem, and in the wake of the resolution of the magical reformation and the new leadership which the College found itself under she thought there little reason why she ought _not_ to attend.

She sat in the first row of seats, close enough that she would easily be able to hear all that was spoken during the presentations. Vivienne had been insistent that she sit so close, and for that Lavellan was glad. This was very much the sort of event which she had always dreamed of attending when she was a young girl, and she felt exhilarated to be there.

As she sat waiting, she perused slim paper pamphlet which outlined the speakers for the night. There would be several, presenting upon everything from entropic theory to new experimental methods of spellcasting. She was, in fact, so caught up in reading that she barely noticed someone slipping into the seat beside her.

“You’re very far from your home,” said a small, soft voice. “Your heart is no longer only tied to the north.” Lavellan looked down to see a familiar young boy perched upon the seat beside him. His dark hair was parted very severely, and he wore black and plum, with little winged creatures embroidered in silver upon the cuffs of his sleeves.

Lavellan smiled at the boy. “Hello, Kieran. I suppose I’m a proper lady of the south now, aren’t I?”

He shook his head. “No. But your blood is. You’d have to go very far north to find it’s like. You’re in the middle now.”

It was an odd comment, but Lavellan was used to strange comments from Cole, and she remembered young Kieran and his similar oddities. “I suppose I am. Is your mother here, Kieran? I haven’t seen her in some time.”

Kieran nodded slowly, a stray lock of dark hair falling upon his forehead. “Mother wanted me to watch and listen. She said it was important. She says maybe I will hear something new.”

A stirring upon her right gave Lavellan pause to turn her head. She smiled, beginning to rise before she realized that her status dicated she did not have to.

She did so anyway, offering a shallow curtsey that was greeted with deeper bow.

“Duke Bastien,” she said. “I was wondering when you might arrive.”

“ _Grand Duchess_.” His own smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. The emphasis upon her new title seemed out of genuine regard, rather than the sarcasm she was sometimes greeted with. “My dear Vivienne told me you had been invited. How have you been faring?”

“Well,” she said, which was only partially a lie. She sat down once more, smoothing out the skirts of her dress - this a far more expensive garment than she had ever thought she would wear. Far more so than even the green dress she had worn to Vivienne’s first salon, so many months ago.

Duke Bastien took a seat beside her. Upon her other side, Kieran peered up at him curiously.

“He is very old for a human,” said the boy, and Duke Bastien laughed. He seemed quite unperturbed by the comment.

“That I am.”

The symposium began approximately on time; the room was nearly full, and several more of the audience arrived as Grand Enchanter Vivienne gave the opening speech. She was very much in her element, captivating the entirety of the room with her words.

“We find ourselves within a new era for magic and mages,” she said, impeccably dressed in embroidered silks and lace. “Though we find ourselves more able than ever to explore the limits of magical manipulation, we must be ever vigilant as to how we conduct ourselves, for what we do affects not only those numbered among those with such talents, but those without as well. We must endeavour the remember our work must remain ethical. Our magic is to serve man, never to rule, and this is something we must all uphold.”

Beside her, Lavellan saw that Kieran was frowning. It was a very slight expression upon his face, but it was still apparent. She wondered at it, but the first of the presenters came up to the podium to present her research, and so she could not ask him.

He seemed, she thought, rather anxious and full of far too much energy, at least until the second presenter came out some twenty minutes later.

“Well,” said the man who stepped forward, a tall, thin man with deep brown skin who seemed to blink somewhat owlishly out at the crowd. “What a crowd we have here tonight! Really, I wouldn’t have thought - but no matter! You’re all here to hear us speak, so speak I will! Tonight’s topic is, of course, the topic of entropy! A fascinating subject, though entropy, of course, isn’t what it used to be!”

He paused, as though he expected a reaction to that. There was a polite cough from someone in the audience. The only person who seemed to realize it was a joke was Kieran, who applauded quietly, yet with a look of delight upon his face.

“That’s my father,” Kieran said, and he seemed to have brightened significantly, his nervous energy gone out of him. “He’s been gone for a very long time.”

“Your...father?” Lavellan looked up at the man again. There were few similarities between him and the pale, small boy who sat beside her. His hair, perhaps, was the same - dark heavy, severely pulled back, though she saw that this man’s was long and bound into a braid that hung down his back. His nose was quite impressively hooked, very unlike the small snub nose that adorned Kieran’s face. But they had the same full lips, and she thought that there might be a similarity to the cast of their jaws.

Kieran’s father seemed only slightly put out that no one seemed to have gotten his joke. He cleared his throat. “Ah. Well. For those of you who do not know, entropic magic is a field which is, at its absolute center, about disorder. Specifically, disorder as applied to living creatures. Those who would view it in a negative light may place it in the same category as blood magic - however, entropic studies are, by their nature, a necessary opposite to creation magic -”

It was, all things considered, an interesting talk. Enlightening, to say the least, as Lavellan had little experience with the particular branch of magic. When Kieran’s father finished speaking, there was a spattering of applause; he had, of course, decided to end with yet another joke which went over most of the listeners’ heads, Lavellan’s included. Kieran, however, seemed filled with a starry-eyed, yet still subdued, delight.

The next two speakers had little of note to speak upon; in the aftermath of the event, Lavellan was not able to restate more than two or three key points of their presentations. However, it was the final speaker - or, rather, _set_ of speakers - who truly caught her attention.

Two women came out to the podium, and Lavellan’s question as to where Kieran’s mother had been was answered. Morrigan wore a well tailored, elegant dress of a deep plum trimmed in black lace, though she looked exceptionally stern beside her partner. The woman who stood beside her drew Lavellan’s attention more than any other, for she was, in fact, the only elvhen woman to speak in the entirety of the conference.

She was a small wisp of a woman, far more slender than Lavellan herself, with a delicate face and green eyes that seemed almost over-large. Her hair was pinned back and she wore a dress of a soft, mint green.

She seemed exceptionally nervous.

“H-hello!” she stuttered out, before pausing to take a deep breath. She nervously twisted her fingers before. “I am Miss Merrill Sabrae, and my associate Lady Morrigan and I will be delivering the final presentation of the evening. I’ve never been up in front of so many people before!”

“We will be speaking on the preservation and restoration of magical artifacts,” said Morrigan, her cool disdain clear upon her face. “A grand undertaking, though many may not find themselves with the wit to understand its importance.”

Miss Merrill gave a small laugh. “Ah, well. You see, the preservation of magical artifacts is so very different from the preservation of the non-magical. You’ve got to be _very careful_ to account for more than simply the deterioration of wood or the corrosion of metal.”

“It would be appropriate to quote Mr. Amell from earlier tonight,” said Morrigan, and the corners of her mouth lifted into the faintest of smiles. “Everything, without the application of energy, will eventually move towards chaos or decay. The same is true of magical. While some ancient artifacts were constructed with this in mind, not all were given the same measure of care. Some, we find, were never intended to hold their magical energies for an extended period of time. Others have been broken, either through natural means or by the irresponsible hand of man.”

“We’ve recently undertaken a very exciting new project, which has certain been a breakthrough!” Miss Merrill seemed to brighten with enthusiasm the more she spoke. “If you will direct your attention to - yes, right now there - “

Just to the side of the stage, a large object covered in a heavy cloth was rolled in. Miss Merrill strode over to it and, with little effort, pulled away the covering.

“ _This_ is an Eluvian,” she enthused, turning back to the audience. “An ancient elvhen artifact. We’ve estimated that this one is about three thousand years old. You wouldn’t believe the magic that was supposed to be contained within these - I nearly didn’t believe it myself! This one, when it was uncovered, was very much broken. I spent the last ten years restoring the glass from the fragments uncovered at the site, and through collaboration with Lady Morrigan, we’ve begun the process of renewing the magic that it once contained.”

“It should come to no surprise to anyone in this room - though I am certain it will still shock you all - that our world is devoid of much of the magic which once filled it.” The stirring in the audience suggested that Morrigan was correct upon this matter. “As such, restoration of such ancient and wondrous things as these is a delicate, near impossible matter. What may have once taken a matter of hours now takes days, weeks, or even years, if it is possible at all. Preservation of such things...for if we lose them, then what yet will remain to remind us of what we once lost, and what could be again?”

The talk stretched longer than the others, a rapid back and forth between Miss Merrill and Morrigan - from enthusiasm to almost foreboding severity. Lavellan listened with rapt attention as they described the details of magical preservation, though her eyes were continually drawn back to the Eluvian.

An ancient elvhen artifact. She noted that they did not, even once, mention what it was supposed to do.

“Well, that was a truly _fascinating_ evening,” Duke Bastien said when the presentation was done, applauding politely along with the rest of the audience. “Vivienne has truly outdone herself this time. I did not expect her to be circumspect about things, but this is quite more than I thought she’d attempt so early!”

Lavellan frowned, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “And what does that mean?” she asked him. The Duke laughed.

“A carefully cultivated symposium,” he replied. “ _Very_ carefully selected. All entirely harmless, unless you consider the implications of it. And consider who it was that spoke.”

“I believe I learned a lot,” said Kieran from Lavellan’s side, and then she felt him tug upon her skirt. “I want you to meet my father,” he declared when he had her attention. “And I am certain mother would like to see you again.”

Duke Bastien smiled at them. “And I am off to congratulate my dear Vivienne. It was a pleasure to see you again, Duchess Lavellan. A great pleasure.”

Now as the presentation had concluded, several of the speakers had congregated at the side of the stage, near where they had all been seated through the evening. Kieran, obvious without regard for the fact that she was now a Grand Duchess, tugged her by the hand across the room.

She was, all things considered, quite grateful that he did not seem to care one bit for her new status.

He dropped her hand as they neared and, in an uncharacteristically exuberant manner, raced forward.

“Father!” His voice cut through the chatter of the room, and as Lavellan watched, the tall man who had spoken earlier scooped Kieran up in one swift motion, heedless to how big the boy was. “You were _wonderful._ ”

His father laughed. “I was, wasn’t I? Did you like the entropy joke? I added that just for you.”

“It was very funny,” said Kieran. He said it quite seriously, punctuating it with a nod of his head. “I liked it very much.”

Kieran’s father set him down carefully, looking to Lavellan. “And who might you be? I’m sorry, that was rude. Enchanter Amell, but I suppose you can call me Mr. Amell. That’s the proper way to do things, yes?” He extended his hand to shake hers.

Lavellan smiled. “Grand Duchess Lavellan of Dales,” she said smoothly, taking his hand and shaking it. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Amell. I much enjoyed your talk on entropy. I am more partial to the primal magics myself, but I daresay it was a fascinating talk!”

Mr. Amell had taken on a rather shocked appearance when she stated her title, but as she continued to speak he brightened considerably.

“Grand Duchess! I mean - Morrigan had told me of a Lavellan, but I hadn’t realized - congratulations on your title! I’ve been out of the country for some time and will be leaving again soon, but even I know - that is -”

“If you cannot say anything useful to the situation, my love, perhaps you should allow _me_ to take over.” Lady Morrigan came up beside him; she seemed quite calm, if slightly amused. “ _Grand Duchess Lavellan_ , is it? It seems you have gone up in the world since last we met. I see you have met Kieran’s father.”

“Very briefly. Your son wanted to introduce us.” She noted that Morrigan did not call Mr. Amell her husband. It seemed a curious thing, but she felt no need to pry into the matter.

“Someone else wants to meet you. Her blood blood is very old, too. It’s how she made the mirror whole again,” said Kieran. His hand clutched tightly at the edge of his father’s jacket.

“Yes, I would assume Merrill would want to meet the new Grand Duchess of the Dales,” said Morrigan. Mr. Amell looked more thoughtful.

“She _has_ expressed an interest in meeting you, ever since my cousin started speaking fondly of you.” He nodded once at the end, as though confirming his own words to himself.

Lavellan gave a polite frown. “Your...cousin?”

“Did he not tell you?” Morrigan looked to Mr. Amell as though this was not at all surprising. “His cousin is Lady Hawke of Kirkwall.”

“Oh!” And now that this was revealed, she could see the family resemblance. It was clearest in the curve of his nose and the line of his jaw, and she felt slightly silly that she had not realized it before. “You have a very fine cousin, Mr. Amell.”

“So she often reminds me.” Mr. Amell gave a low chuckled. He then turned, looking over to where Miss Merrill stood conversing with a very short woman whose hair was a fiery red. “Miss Merrill! Miss Merrill, when you have a moment?”

The dalish woman looked up and, when she saw who stood near Mr. Amell, her large eyes went all the wider. She quickly excused herself from her conversation and came over. “Mr. Amell? Is there something you need?”

Mr. Amell grinned widely. “Your Grace, allow me to formally introduce you to Miss Merrill Sabrae. Miss Merrill, I believe you wanted to meet the Grand Duchess Lavellan?”

“I did!” Miss Merrill said, eyes very wide. “I - oh - should I bow? I always forget what I’m supposed to do!”

Lavellan found herself smiling as well. “Aneth ara, lethallan,” she said softly. “There is no need to bow to me.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Miss Merrill wrung her hands before her. “Well, then I - I won’t. It is very good to meet you. I’ve been - well, that is, I had been wondering who from Clan Lavellan had become Grand Duchess! I had thought there was no one left -”

“You wondered if it was simply a human noble who had taken the name,” Lavellan said, and Miss Merrill nodded. “It would not have been the first time something of that sort had happened.”

“People were saying that you were dalish, but no one was entirely certain - but I’m so glad that it’s true! One of our people, ruling the Dales! No one ever - oh, but I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.” Lavellan wished she could reach out and stop Miss Merrill from twisting her hands so, but she did not. “I very much enjoyed your talk this evening. You mentioned that you used an arulin’holm in restoring the eluvian? Was that a relic of your clan?”

An odd look crossed Miss Merrill’s face. “Oh, yes, it...it _was_ , I suppose it is mine now, unless someone else in the clan wishes to claim it - though they’re all quite happy to leave me to my research. But yes, it is very old and still retains its properties from when it was new.”

“I was quite curious about where you discovered the Eluvian,” she said, though she did not add that she was curious as well to what it’s purpose was. Miss Merrill and Lady Morrigan had artfully dodged that question all evening, and she assumed that it was not something which she would find an answer to yet. “So much of our history is easily lost and less easily found.”

Now Miss Merrill looked about her, then leaned slightly close. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“The forests of the south hold many secrets,” she said, and there was a delighted note to her voice. “The further you go, the more you might find, though it is not all safe. I mean, you wouldn’t expect that, would you? Humans haven’t been able to claim that land, so - the restoration work was done in Kirkwall,” she said in a voice at normal volume, standing straight once more. “It was a challenge to move everything, but _oh_ it was quite worth it! I spent about seven years there, reassembling the mirror myself, and it was only late last year that I began collaboration with Lady Morrigan on how best to properly restore the magic. We have only been a little successful so far.”

Now they spoke for some length upon the topic, before Miss Merrill was called away. Lavellan bid her farewell, very glad that she had been given a chance to meet the woman. She had a most remarkable mind.

When she turned back, she found that Morrigan and Mr. Amell were within a conversation of their own.

“Fitting, for the new court advisor upon all things magical and arcane,” Mr. Amell said, with a large smile that could truly only be categorized as quite utterly _silly_. It was quite obvious she had come in part way through some personal exchange. “I’m sure you’ll cast a spell over all the court. You’ve certainly cast a spell over _my_ heart.”

“ _Ugh_ , you _ridiculous_ man.” She gave the most long-suffering sigh that Lavellan had ever heard, but she saw that Morrigan briefly touched Mr. Amell’s wrist lightly, before retracting her hand.

“You’re to be the new court advisor?” Lavellan could not help but ask, finding herself somehow delighted by this. A small, pleased smile bloomed upon Morrigan’s lips.

“That I am. With the seat left empty after its former inhabitant moved on to...greater things, it is _quite_ an honor to be chosen.” She tilted her head, her expression turning sly. “I shall be in Halamshiral for the foreseeable future; perhaps you will visit me there.”

It was an invitation. Lavellan inclined her head. “Perhaps I will.”

Now after a time, the hour grew quite late indeed, and Lavellan decided to excuse herself. Saying her goodbyes, she turned for the entrance of the room. It was then that she noticed someone sitting in the far back of the room who she had not seen before. She had been so preoccupied with the presentation and, after, with speaking with Mr. Amell and Morrigan, to even look behind her. But there, sitting with his arms crossed and his long legs stretched out before him, sat Lord Corypheus.

At first, she thought that she might simply be able to walk past him, and so she held her head high and swept down the aisle between the chairs as gracefully as she could. But as she neared, he stood.

Lavellan had forgotten how greatly he towered above her. Still, for all that he was imposing, she had no need to acknowledge him.

So she did not.

“You would ignore your better?” she heard him say as she passed, and that made her head snap up, made her turn to look at him. She raised a brow.

“Lord Corypheus. I did not see you there.” It was, of course, a lie that they both knew. “How have you fared since I last saw you in court? Has the sting of your loss worn off yet?”

His eyes narrowed and he drew himself taller still, until he loomed above her.

“You won through cheap tricks what was not yours to take,” he said. “No one treats Lord Corypheus as such without repercussions.”

“I did not realize I was to treat you with any measure of respect when you will not do the same with me,” she said. Though he sought to intimidate, she found that he no longer inspired the fear he had when she first met him at Lady Josephine’s party. “And I must remind you that there were no cheap tricks employed. I simply uncovered the true will, which you and all your men and demons could not keep from me.”

Lord Corypheus made a noise deep in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

“Now, now, Lord Corypheus,” she said, and perhaps she was being a bit rude, _perhaps_ she was taking too much pleasure in this, but she found she did not mind if she was. “We are in public. In public, we must act civil to one another. I’m certain you would prefer to do nothing to tarnish your image further?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, until she saw a muscle jump in his jaw.

“Enjoy your spoils for now,” he said then. “It is only a matter of time before the land you now own will return to its rightful owner.”

“Oh, Lord Corypheus,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I believe that it already has. And even should it change hands once more, it will not be into _yours_.”

***

A message arrived for her the next morning, brought in with her morning tea. She thanked the servant who delivered it and read it as she buttered a scone.

“Hmmm,” she said as she considered the contents of the letter, scattering crumbs as she did so. It was, all things said, a welcome letter to receive.

 _Grand Duchess Lavellan of Dales_ , the letter read in an even hand. It contained, of course, all of the proper platitudes, and ended with an invitation to dine that evening with Duke Bastien and Madame Vivienne.

She was quite glad to attend, as she and Vivienne had not spoken at great length since briefly after the title of Grand Duchess of Dales had been bestowed upon her, and not since Vivienne had been named Grand Enchanter. There had been little time to speak at the symposium, and Lavellan was eager to congratulate her.

She dressed in green silk for the dinner, as she often did now, with a dress that draped quite elegantly in a lighter, almost mint color, and a deeper green jacket that was touched with lace. Her skirts were embroidered with trailing vines, and she knew this dress - one of many she now owned - was far richer than anything she had even thought of prior to her arrival at Skyhold. She wore her coarse, tightly curled hair piled high and pearls around her neck.

To see herself in the mirror now was both more and less strange. She had become accustomed to this new self of hers. She was so transformed from how she had been before that she could scarcely reconcile the two. In the mirror, she looked a proper lady of significant status.

She wondered, as she often did, what her clan would make of her now. Possibly how Miss Merrill had, but it did not stand to reason that every dalish would react the same.

Upon arriving at Vivienne’s Cumberland estate, Lavellan found herself greeted quite warmly.

“My dear, I am delighted to see you!” Vivienne said as she came into the sitting room. “Please, do sit. It has been quite some time since we have had the opportunity to talk, has it not?”

“Indeed, it has.” Lavellan took a seat across the room from Vivienne. The woman seemed, as always, quite within her element, and the room bore many touches that spoke to her tastes. “How has being the new grand enchanter been?”

A small smile crossed Vivienne’s face. “It has been marvelous, my dear, though taxing. There is much to do, in the wake of so much turmoil. Did you enjoy the symposium?”

“I did!” At that, Vivienne’s smile grew slightly. “I was quite intrigued by all the speakers.”

“It _was_ a success.”

“Due to your planning, no doubt.”

It was, perhaps, not entirely true. But Vivienne accepted the flattery easily. “It was an opportunity, my dear. As Grand Enchanter, I must show show an example of how magic will be regarded as we go forward.”

Lavellan wondered then upon Duke Bastien’s words from the night before, and from the peculiarities of those who had spoken. It had been, she supposed, a superficially sanitized presentation. Each presenter had said nothing that had been offensive, but she wondered at the undercurrent of the entire evening. She thought in particular upon Mr. Amell’s speech on Entropy, and the later discussion of Elvhen artifacts.

She wondered what, indeed, it was that Vivienne had meant by assembling those that she had.

She, of course, did not question her on this. She doubted that she would receive a full answer, for she knew Vivienne as one who held her secrets close to her chest.

Now they spoke for some time, uninterrupted for some time until movement at the door called their attention.

“Ah, and here we are. The final two of our party,” Vivienne said as two familiar men entered the room.

Duke Bastien smiled at her fondly. “Apologies for keeping you waiting. You know how we are.”

“Mmm, yes.” Vivienne looked, for a moment, happier than Lavellan had seen. “You and your horses. Gaspard, I hope you are well?”

It ought not to have surprised Lavellan that Grand Duke Gaspard was there as well. But she found herself somewhat struck by his appearance there beside Duke Bastien.

“Quite,” said Grand Duke Gaspard. “The journey to Cumberland was not overly difficult.”

“I would hope not. Now, as you are both here and the hour has grown late, perhaps we should begin dinner?” It was, in truth, not a suggestion.

Dinner was, despite Lavellan’s worry, not as difficult as it could have been. She was, after all, somewhat wary of the Grand Duke and how he might treat her, for she knew that there were those among the nobility who saw her rise to power as quite unfortunate. But he seemed nothing if not amiable, and she found herself grow less wary as the evening progressed.

Now as the final course concluded, there was a slight disruption at the table. A coughing fit, from Duke Bastien, who politely turned away, a handkerchief covering his mouth. Lavellan saw Vivienne stiffen, her back gone rigid, even as the coughing subsided.

“Bastien?” she said in askance, and he shook his head slightly. She held his gaze for a moment, then brought her napkin up to delicately dab at her bottom lip.

Duke Bastien frowned, then followed suit. As subtle as they tried to be with the exchange, Lavellan just saw the specks of blood that came away upon his handkerchief.

Vivienne rose from her seat. “Gaspard, Lavellan, will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course,” said Gaspard, and Duke Bastien rose to follow Vivienne from the room.

Now they sat in silence for several minutes, and Lavellan was quite uncertain as to what to do. When it seemed as though the silence had stretched too long, the voice of a servant drew their attention.

“Madame de Fer regrets that it will be slightly longer than anticipated before she and Duke Bastien will be able to rejoin you,” she said, head tipped down. “She suggests that you await her in the sitting room.”

Gaspard looked to Lavellan. “Shall we, my lady?”

Lavellan smiled and nodded once before rising. “Of course.”

It did appear that Vivienne and Bastien would take quite some time, and having seen the blood upon his handkerchief, Lavellan did worry. She was reminded, quite suddenly, of how ill Felix had looked when she last saw him, and how Dorian had explained, quietly, in the aftermath of Adamant, how he had been ill for some time.

“It is not contagious,” Dorian had said, out of earshot off all who might hear. “And Felix has been quite resilient through the entire ordeal. ‘No, Dorian, if I’m going to die in a few years, I’m not going to lie around waiting.’ ‘Let’s see the world, Dorian! I’m certain we can do some good before I go.’ ‘I’ve always wanted to return to Orlais, Dorian. I think you’d like it there!’” He had sighed heavily then. “That was always our dear Felix. Never one to simply give up. He was always the best of us.”

Now, Lavellan did not know Duke Bastien so well as Felix, but she had seen the flicker of worry upon Vivienne’s face. And so she _wondered_.

“I hear tell that you are related to Duke Bastien?” she said after silence had trailed on for too long between her and Grand Duke Gaspard.

Gaspard, it seemed, was quite all right with answering her question. “Through marriage. My late wife was his daughter,” he said easily. “Though we are no longer bound by that, we have remained friends.”

“Ah.” She looked out towards the window, at the sunset that turned the room to red. “I did not know.”

“You are new to society,” he said, and she looked back, expecting a barbed comment. “In time, you will learn all of the intricacies, detestable though they are.”

That surprised her. “You find the way society is detestable?”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head, nodding slightly. “The Game is an unfortunate reality of our world. I despise it, but one must do what they must.”

She pursed her lips together. She was quite uncertain what to make of him, after this confession. “And if one chooses not to play the Game?”

Gaspard gave a low chuckle. “Then the courts will devour them. You cannot escape the Game, my lady. You will learn this soon enough. Tell me, do you plan to attend the ball at Halamshiral at the season’s end?”

Lavellan’s brow rose in surprise. “This is the first I have heard of it,” she admitted. There was a slight chance to Gaspard’s countenance as she said this, though she could not identify the emotion.

“All of the most important people in Orlais will be there,” he said. “It would be a shame if you were not to attend.”

“It would.” She felt, as she often did, the first flutterings of anxiety within her chest. A ball, at the end of the season? But, surely, if she could face down demons of envy and pride and fear, she could face down the nobility of Orlais outside of court.

***

That night, upon returning to her accommodations, Lavellan sat before the mirror once more, pulling pins from her hair. She felt less wrung dry than she had at previous events, but still with unease fluttering in her stomach.

When Vivienne had returned, it was to say that they must end the evening prematurely, as Duke Bastien had taken ill. As they had said their goodbyes, Grand Duke Gaspard had expressed an interest in seeing her the next time she was in Val Royeaux. Lavellan had smiled politely and said that perhaps she would call upon him then.

She wondered at this new world she found herself in, where everything seemed a trap and she could no longer be fully certain someone’s words were genuine. She hoped, dearly, that Gaspard’s words were not a ruse. It would be quite something to have an ally such as him.

But as she sat before the mirror, she thought, as she sometime still did, of an artist with long fingers and ragged coats, and she wondered if, perhaps, this was why he had left. For she knew, now, that there never would have been a possibility for their happiness, even had he stayed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we move into the third and final arc of the story, which jumps us forward a bit more. We're getting closer to some _fun_ chapters!
> 
> Also, here's where I mess up Orlesian politics even more than I have before.


	27. In which there is a Grand Duke and a flower garden

As chance would have it, Lavellan did not return to Haven after her visit to Cumberland. She had, in the months since she had been given the title of Grand Duchess and inherited all the estates and holdings of Justinia Divine, spent much of her time outside of her home. There had been much she needed to do relating to the social and political aspects of her new station, and Grand Enchanter Vivienne’s symposium had only been the latest in a string of social engagements which had occupied her time.

Now, Grand Duke Gaspard’s invitation to call up him - or for him to call upon her, as was only proper - the next time she visited Val Royeaux was something Lavellan regarded with nervous skepticism. She had little reason to trust him, but she also had little reason to distrust him aside from the fact that Orlesian politics lead to a rather bitter, unpleasant taste within one’s mouth. It seemed as though, to thrive within the intricacies of Orlais, one must distrust more than one must trust.

Lavellan disliked this greatly.

Still, other business brought her to Val Royeaux, and so there was no reason why she ought not to call upon Grand Duke Gaspard. She intended only a short stay, for her next stop would be to the heart of the Dales and Halamshiral, for Lady Morrigan had invited her to visit and she was much obliged to see her again. Indeed, she was only recently installed into her lodgings within the city that a letter from none other than the Grand Duke was delivered, requesting to call upon her the next afternoon.

“I would suggest caution,” Lady Josephine said as they walked together through the streets of Orlais that morning. Josephine had business of her own to attend to, and while she did not impart specifics it seemed as though it was of a family matter. It had been quite fortuitous to chance upon her while in the city, and they had decided to spend time together, talking and perusing the storefronts. There were a good deal of new fashionable hats being displayed that Lavellan found absolutely atrocious.

“I plan on it,” she said, but she noted that there was a small furrow between Lady Josephine’s brows.

“Grand Duke Gaspard is an incredibly powerful figure in Orlesian society. He could make either an excellent ally, or a dangerous enemy.”

A pair of women passed by, each dressed quite elegantly. Lavellan ignored the look that one of them gave her; it seemed quite unkind. “He says that he does not like the Game,” she said, and Lady Josephine made a small, amused sound.

“Oh, he may say such things, but they mean little in Orlais. One does not need to like the Game to understand its importance, or to know how to play it. If he has said such a thing to you, it is likely no more than a calculated move on his part.”

This was not precisely news to Lavellan, for she had suspected as much, but it still made her insides jump uncomfortably.

“ _Ah_ ,” she said. “I do with it had been genuine.”

Lady Josephine gave a soft smile. “Few things in Orlais are truly genuine.”

It was, quite sadly, a statement that rang true to Lavellan.

Now, as they walked along the street of Orlais, a man in a coat that seemed too heavy for the warm summer weather came bustling along. He had a strong gait and broad shoulders, and he very nearly clipped into Lavellan’s shoulder as he hurried along. Lavellan, for her part, had been quite distracted by Lady Josephine and so was quite startled when he brushed past. She pivoted on her foot to keep her balance, and it was then that she looked at the man and he looked at her.

“Constable Blackwall!” Her surprise turned to something like joy, and a smile grew upon her mouth. He looked much the same as he had the last time she saw him, his hair still bound back and streaked with grey, the tarnished gold hoop through his ear. “You are returned from the Western Approach!”

He seemed surprised to see her as well. “My lady. Yes. I - yes. I’ve just returned. I’ve…” He paused, as though quite thoroughly lost for words. Lavellan realized that his attention had turned to Lady Josephine, who stood beside Lavellan. “Forgive me. We haven’t been introduced. Warden Constable Thom Blackwall.”

“Lady Montilyet,” Josephine said, and Constable Blackwall gave a sharp military bow.

“It’s good to meet you. I…” He looked back to Lavellan; there seemed something distracted in his manner, as though his mind was elsewhere. “I am glad to see you are well, after the trials at Adamant. Damned - pardon my language - demons. They’re a nasty bit of work. But you survived. On to bigger things.” He smiled then, a deep chuckled caught in his throat. “You’ve the entire world at your feet, my lady.”

“Oh,” said Lavellan, feeling her cheeks heat. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Not as of yet,” said Lady Josephine. She, too, smiled.

Constable Blackwall looked from Lavellan to Lady Josephine; for a moment it looked as though he meant to say something more. But there was something wary about the way he acted. Something determined. Something resigned. He seemed so very on edge. “I...should take my leave. Lady Lavellan...and Lady Montilyet. It was...lovely to meet you.”

“What an...interesting man.” Lady Josephine watch him as he departed. Her lips were parted slightly, a slightly frown upon her brow. “A warden, you say?”

“Yes,” said Lavellan, who thought there something odd about the way he had seemed preoccupied. Likely warden business. “I had thought him simply a constable of the city, but it seems he is a warden as well.”

“Strange.” Lady Josephine’s frown deepened slightly, then her features smoothed. “I did not see any symbol of the city guard upon his person. Perhaps he is not on duty today.”

“Perhaps,” Lavellan said, and she thought no more upon it.

***

Now afternoon came swiftly, and Lavellan took a carriage to meet Grand Duke Gaspard. There was a botanical garden in the high quarter of Val Royeaux, and this is where he had invited her.

Despite several trips over the past seasons to the city, Lavellan had never before visited the garden. It was in full bloom, carefully cultivated and tended, and as she strolled the paths upon Gaspard’s arm she noted several rather ingenius systems made to deliver water to some of the plants.

“Do you have an interest in horticulture, my lady?” Gaspard asked as she stopped to examine a rose bush abundantly adorned with white flowers.

Lavellan let her fingers brush against the petals of one of the roses before she straightened. “Oh, only in passing. I have a garden and greenhouse at Skyhold, though I fear if I alone tended to the plants, they would not survive long at all.” She thought of the lotus she had saved from Wisdom’s home, and how it still thrived thanks to Miss Ve’mal’s ministrations. “Do you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I...enjoy horticulture? No. I fear I am a man of very simple interests.”

“You are a military man,” Lavellan said, and she heard him chuckle, saw the corner of his mouth lift into a smile.

“I would claim no differently,” he said. “Still, I had thought you might enjoy the gardens here.”

“I do.” She smiled, and they continued their stroll through the gardens. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers and pollen; it smelled of plants and summer, and she felt only slightly overwarm from the heat of the sun.

They spoke as they toured the gardens, and she found that she did not dislike conversation with him. He was quite blunt, something she found terribly refreshing as most nobles she had encountered since gaining her title had spoken double edged platitudes to her face. She hoped that Lady Montilyet was wrong, and that the words he spoke truly were genuine.

Now as they walked past a bush of hydrangeas in full bloom, Grand Duke Gaspard slowed his pace to a stop and turned to look at her.

“Grand Duchess Lavellan,” he said, and he sounded so very serious that Lavellan turned her attention from the flowers once more. She felt a slight jolt in her chest, the slight nervous twinge of her heart at his changed demeanour. “I confess that I did have a hidden motive for asking you to meet with me today.”

“You did.” She straightened, at once ill at ease. Her good mood hung upon a knife’s point, and she almost did not wish to hear what he had to say next. “And what, may I ask, is that motive?”

“An alliance,” he said, and that startled her. “Surely you cannot be blind to the politics of Orlais. Alone, we may each wield a good deal of power, but together we would be a force to be reckoned with.”

“Um.” She coughed delicately. “I’m uncertain as to what exactly you are suggesting.”

Grand Duke Gaspard looked at her, his eyes sweeping over her face. He had such a stern face, as though carved from stone.

“You are a remarkable woman, Lavellan,” he said. “You have managed to gain title in a Game that does not favor you. I would be honored if you would marry me.”

“ _Ah_.”

A small breath escaped her lips. She stared at him, her mouth slightly parted, and she was certain she looked shocked. She _felt_ shocked, like electricity had run from her feet all the way up to her head, sending little pinprick sparks through her arms and fingertips.

“You seem at a loss for words,” Gaspard said, and Lavellan drew in a deep breath. She gave a small laugh, one made weak by her surprise.

“I suppose I am,” she admitted. “Surely you...that is to say...I am flattered, Gaspard, but I am surprised that you would propose to me. Surely, if you wished to marry, there must be more suitable matches than I.”

“I will speak more plainly for you, then,” he said. He had taken a slight step towards her, but moved no closer. “I have no true need to marry. I have married once before, and I have no desire to see what I had replaced. However, I admire you, Lavellan. You are someone I find worthy of respect. And the two of us united would prove a formidable obstacle to anyone with designs upon either of our...fortunes.” And then he smiled broadly, laughing once more. “You must, too, imagine how this would shock the courts into silence. There would be little we could not do, if we were to ally in such a way.”

Lavellan could not, for that single moment, think clearly. She was in such a state of shock she could not move. Nothing a demon had ever thrown at her had stopped her in such a manner; it seemed so strange to her that a proposal of marriage from a regular man could.

But, she supposed, that was exactly it. A man had just proposed to her, out of seemingly nowhere, for the purpose of political gain. There was no reason but that, though he at least admitted to some respect for her. She had known, or some part of her had, that she would one day need to marry and that, given her new status and title, it would be for political reasons. She had known that she would not have the luxury of marrying for affection. For love.

A fleeting image filled her mind, a man standing upon her doorstep in the rain.

Her heart ached. It had been months, and the smallest reminder of him still brought her pain.

“I...cannot make such a decision so swiftly,” she said, her mouth feeling terribly dry. She felt almost removed from herself, as though her words and her mind were in disconnect. The proper words upon her tongue, but not her. “Might I...might I have some time?”

There was a flash of dismay upon Gaspard’s face, gone in an instant. “For you? Of course. As much time as you might need.”

“Thank you,” she said, relief rushing through her.

“I shall make this easier,” he said then, and her eyes widened once more. “The ball, at the end of the season. You need not give me an answer until then. All I ask is that we attend together.”

“To shock the courts.” She echoed his earlier words.

“Imagine it.” And he smiled. “Is this acceptable, my lady?”

She nodded, for she could think of little else to say. “It is. Thank you, Gaspard. I will think upon what you have said.”

***

And think she did, for her mind could not shake the memory of that afternoon. Even after she said her farewells and returned to her lodgings, she could think of nothing else.

She ought to have been more wary. She ought to have been more _prepared_. But she had not expected a proposal of marriage, not from him, not from _anyone_. She had not hoped for his proposal, nor anyone else’s.

But now she had to find an answer for him, and she knew she could not make the decision lightly. Not as Her Grace the Grand Duchess of Dales. Not when that was who she now was.

The rooms she stayed in felt smaller and smaller as the remainder of the afternoon began to tumble towards evening, and eventually she pulled on her short cropped jacket over her light summer dress and set out, informing no one of where she went. She needed to clear her head, she needed air, she needed _space_.

Her feet carried her to the market square and through it; it was late, most of the shops having begun to close. She did not well care where she went, for she simply needed the air and the movement; for all that she sometimes enjoyed the city and her new life, this was one of the moments where she longed for open plains and the smell of the halla.

Grand Duke Gaspard’s proposal hung heavy within her mind, and try as she might she could not bring herself to think of anything else. His words played an endless loop, like a small tune caught in her head.

_You need to give an answer now. My offer stands, should you decide such a match would be appropriate._

_Why_ had he proposed? They had encountered each other several times since their first meeting in Lydes, but certainly they had not struck up more than a passing acquaintance. Certainly there had been nothing that had indicated that they would make a suitable match, and yet…

 _Oh_. She nearly tripped over a crack in the pavement as she was hit by realization. _Her land_. Of course that was it. It must have been. By marrying her, he would gain land in the south. He was, she had heard whispered, an expansionist at heart, and while she knew that typically meant he looked once more towards Ferelden, it could also be applied to his own holdings.

 _But_ \- and here a small thought came creeping along, adding its own words to the endless loop within her mind - _what other choice did she have?_ Who else was there of high enough station who would consider marriage to her, who she would consider as well?

Still, there was no rush, she reasoned as she continued to walk. There was no need for her to marry in the foreseeable future. Eventually, yes, but not now. Not when she still…

Not when she still missed Mr. Solas so dearly that the thought of him made her heart ache.

With a heavy heart and mind, still unable to shake the pervasive thoughts that would not leave her be, Lavellan turned towards the reflecting pools. They were calm and beautiful in a way that she hoped would ease her mind.

Now as she came towards the docks in the failing light of the day, she found that the solace she sought was not to be found. The water gleamed in the dim twilight, the final fading burst of light coming over the mountains turning the pools vibrant orange and purple. The small, shallow bottomed boats used to traverse the pools bobbed softly. It was all utterly beautiful and perfect, but it did little to ease her troubled mind.

She leaned upon the rail, sighing heavily. The wind had changed, drawing the scent of smoke and smog from the industrial district. It was still caustic and nauseating, but after the demons she had encountered, it no longer seemed as harsh. No longer quite as...real.

She wondered if the world was quite as bright as it had been before she had first come to Skyhold Manor. Sometimes, it did not seem that way.

So still and silent was the evening that when a noise of disruption came from somewhere to her right it drew her attention directly. She drew herself up fully, turning to look down the stretch of docks.

There was some manner of altercation occurring, she saw that immediately. What looked to be two men scuffled there by the water’s edge, and as she watched with wide eyes she saw one stumble back to stagger against the wall of a nearby building as the other threw a punch that connected with his face.

A wiser person would have, perhaps, deemed the situation too dangerous. A lady of similar social status might have turned up her nose at those lower than her and walked away.

But nothing in life had been quite as frightening since she stepped out of the ruins of Adamant. The nightmare there had not stripped away her fear, that she knew. It had simply prompted a confrontation, and she had emerged from it knowing she was far stronger than she had ever suspected.

There was, as well, something familiar about the two men that made her unable to look away or to simply leave them alone. Their build, or the way they each held themselves. She felt, even before she was able to see their faces, that she knew them.

And so, perhaps foolishly, she pushed away from the rail where she had watched the dying light upon the reflecting pools, and made her way down the docks.

“Excuse me,” she said as she neared, raising her voice so as to be heard. “What is going on here?”

The two men stilled at the sound of her voice. For a moment, she could see neither fully, for they were cloaked in shadow. But then she focused upon the man who had been pushed against the wall, seeing the coat of the guard, long dark hair and a familiar beard. He looked at her and she saw his eyes go wide.

“My lady,” he rasped out, and her mouth dropped open slightly.

“Constable Blackwall?” She drew herself up, turning her attention to his attacker. “I _demand_ you release him at once!”

But there was something terribly strange about the entire situation; his attacker had his back to her, but she saw his shoulder stiffen. He, too, had dark hair which he had pulled back, though she could just see that it was laced with grey. And as she looked at Constable Blackwall again, she noted something - his hair was simply black, none of the silver that had touched it when she saw him at Adamant. The lines and signs of age she had noted upon his face then were absent, and there was no golden hoop jammed through his ear. He looked far younger, far less worn than the man she and Lady Josephine had met that morning.

But the man with his back to her, she could see the glint of an earring through _his_ ear.

She felt some terrible sense of foreboding.

“Constable Blackwall?” There was a question in her voice, a tremor. She needed him to turn, the second man. Needed him to look at her. Still, he kept his face averted. “Warden Constable Thom Blackwall _?_ ”

“Tell her,” said the second man, his voice a harsh condemnation. “ _Tell her_ , or I bloody well will.”

His voice was familiar; harsher than the first man, as though worn with time and hardship. Lavellan felt her heart thud heavily in her chest.

Constable Blackwall - with his dark hair free of grey, the man she had met in Val Royeaux with Sera many months ago - looked to her and the look in his eyes was filled with such self-loathing that she was nearly staggered.

“My name isn’t Thom Blackwall,” he told her, and though his voice started out as a whisper it grew - not in confidence, but with the sharp edge of that self loathing and hatred. “My name is Rainier.”

“Rainier _Blackwall_ ,” said the second man, and he turned. “My _brother_.”

And now she could see it, in the haggard edges of the second man - the same nose, the mouth. His was gaunter and harsher, his face lined - but she saw now that he _was_ the man she had met at Adamant, a worn version of the other but otherwise his duplicate.

Here, before her, stood two men named Blackwall, and she knew them both.

“ _Why?_ ” was all she could say, her hands clutched before her chest, her heart feeling like a bird attempting to escape a cage. “ _How?_ ”

“ _Tell her_ ,” the real Thom Blackwall said once more, his hands gripping the lapels of Rainier’s coat tightly. She saw Rainier’s throat work as he swallowed heavily, saw the way tension caught at his shoulders.

“Ten years ago,” he said, and he did not look at her now, looking instead at the man who was his brother. “We were soldiers. We served together. Thom was...Thom was the better man. A captain, doing what was right. And then...he died. _You died_.”

Thom shoved Rainier backwards again, releasing him. He collided with the wall once more. “You left me for dead! You left me for dead and took my name and my place!”

“I thought you _dead!_ I thought - “

“You thought you could make yourself into a better man without having to try,” snarled Thom. There was something horrible about the look upon his face. “Always looking for a quick way forward.”

“I thought…” Rainier shook his head. “No, you are right. I took your name. Because it should have been me who died in that forest, not you. Better Thom live than Rainier.”

It was as though his very words took all the wind and bluster and anger from Thom. He still for a long moment, and then his entire body seemed to sag. He put a hand to his forehead, his head shaking, and he stepped back. Once, twice, and then he turned away, towards the water.

He laughed. It was a bitter sound.

Rainier leaned back against the wall; he looked every bit as drained as his brother. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

They seemed to her two mirror images. They had each seemed to her good men, but there was such history here she could not possibly understand it all.

She looked between both of them, then walked to the side of Thom Blackwall. She stood close, just beside him, each of them looking out over the reflecting pool that glimmered faintly in the twilight.

“Warden Blackwall,” she said, speaking softly so that only he could hear her. “Thom. You...when we met upon that Western Approach. That was the first time we had ever met, wasn’t it. And yet you acted like you knew me.”

“I did,” he said, and he did not look at her. “I knew of you, but we had never met until that day. But _you_ knew me. I realized...you had likely met my brother. I had not known where he was or what he had done until I came to Val Royeaux.”

Lavellan drew in a breath, exhaling with a sigh. “You deceived me so as to find your brother.”

Thom Blackwall tipped his head back, and once again he gave a soft laugh. “I did. I’ve lived as a warden for so long now; I did not realize he was even alive. There were records - for all intents and purposes, Rainier Blackwall _is_ dead. One man died in the forest that day, and only Thom lived.”

“You came here to see your brother again.”

He nodded. He laughed again, the laugh of someone so deeply disappointed they can make no other sound. “And look what I found. Tell me, what do I do now?”

“Blackwall,” she said, and for a brief moment she wished to touch his arm, to impart some sense of reassurance. “ _Warden Constable_ Blackwall. You are still yourself, are you not? I cannot tell you what you should do; this is not my decision to make.”

He was quiet then, for a long moment. Then, he turned and looked back to where his brother still sagged against the wall.

“You’ve made a life for yourself under my name,” he said, and Rainier Blackwall looked up, met his eyes. “I won’t take that from you. You were right; Thom Blackwall was the one to walk out of the forest that day. I remember Rainier, and it is better for both of us that he remain dead.”

Rainier Blackwall opened his mouth; he looked ragged and worn, his eyes hollow. “What will you do?” he asked.

“I’m a warden. I have my own life,” his brother said. “But I’m not Thom Blackwall anymore. I haven’t been Thom for a long time. I’m just Blackwall now.”

Rainier Blackwall seemed to deflate further. It seemed almost as though they were through, as though Blackwall - the true Thom Blackwall - was done. But then he spoke once more, and his words fell harshly.

“I can’t forgive you for this, Rainier,” said Blackwall, and the look upon Rainier’s face hurt to look at. “Not now. Possibly not ever.”

“I never wanted your forgiveness. I - I just wanted you alive. I wanted to do what was right.”

Blackwall shook his head. “This wasn’t what was right.”

He turned and he began to walk way. But then he stopped.

“But I am glad that you are alive, brother,” he said, and then he was gone.

Left behind, Rainier Blackwall buried his face in his hands.

***

Lavellan had, in fact, planned to be in Val Royeaux for the better part of two weeks, but when she woke the following morning she found that she wished to be as far from the city as she could be. The knowledge of what had occurred between the two Blackwall brothers, as well as Gaspard’s proposal, put her on edge and made her feel as though her skin were too tight. Suffocated, perhaps. She wanted to breathe, and she could not within the city.

As she made preparations to leave for Halamshiral, where she had arranged to meet Lady Morrigan in a week’s time, a scraping sound came from the window. Thinking it a bird - a pigeon or crow, perhaps - she ignored it, but when a draft of air came from across the room, she turned around to find a petite blonde woman perched upon the back of the couch.

“So, your lady-bits,” said Sera, knees jiggling before her. Her boots left dusty marks upon the couch cushions. “Leaving already?”

“I’ve finished with my business in the city,” she said, lacing her fingers together behind her. “What do you need, Sera?”

“Ugh, can’t I just visit? I mean, we’ve only been communicating through letter for _ages_. You looked into that thing in Verchiel, right?”

“It’s been dealt with,” Lavellan said, watching as Sera sprawled out over the top of the couch. “Thank you for the tip. Though you know I really cannot touch things outside of my own land.”

“Of _course_ you can! You’re a bleeding grand duchess now! It’s like I said, get in early, get in good, before they get too big. You’re not too big, though. I mean, you _could_ be, but you’re all right.” She had flipped upside down, her head upon the cushions, her feet hooked over the back of the couch. Her blond hair stuck out messily as her cap fell upon the floor. “So? What’s miss lady high and mighty doing now?”

“Business in Halamshiral,” she said shortly. Sera puffed up her cheeks and blew out air.

“ _Oooooh_. Yeah. Have fun. Full of poncy nobles - like you! Hey, I’ve got some _news_ from there. You know, poke a few holes here and there, remind big people that they’re not _so_ big.” She flipped herself upright. “It’s all in your bag. I packed it for you! The letters, not all the dresses. You’ve got too many, by the way. Dresses, not letters.” She hopped up off the couch, heading back towards the window. “Maybe I’ll see you around, your fancy-ness.”

“Please use the - door,” Lavellan said, but Sera had already gone out the window again. With a sigh, she turned to her luggage, searching for what Sera had left her. It did not take her long - she found several folded sheets of parchment inside of her underthings. She sighed, but read them - all complaints and issues of those who worked for factories that rested within what was now her land.

She made a note to write to her advisors; she would do her best to look into all of these things.

Later that afternoon, she boarded the train that would take her to Halamshiral.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes: First off, _yes_ , we will be seeing Solas again in this fic. Just not _quite_ yet. I've had a clear outline of where this story is going, and things should be getting fun soon. I'm also switching up the order of in-game events somewhat, so you'll get to see how that plays out soon.
> 
> Also, I know that spoilers are already floating around for the new DLC. I have not seen them and am trying to avoid any and all spoilers. Please know that the rest of the story has already been planned and will be written without any influence from _Trespasser_ , so for those of you who might be worried about potential spoilers slipping into the fic, you don't need to worry about that!
> 
> And also, while not a perfect analogue, I realized while working on this whole arc of the story that Gaspard is this fics Willoughby/Wickham.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone for your kind comments, and I hope you continue to enjoy this fic!


	28. In which Lavellan goes into the forest

“And _that_ is where all of the wonderfully insipid machinations of the court will occur at the end of the season.” Morrigan gestured elegantly towards the Winter Palace as they walked the upper quarter of Halamshiral. “You will be in attendance there, I suppose.”

“I will,” said Lavellan, looking up at the great structure. It was very Orlesian, and it made her skin itch to look at it.

She had, since arriving at Halamshiral several days before, often felt similar. To be here, as she was, felt wrong. To be here, in what was once the capital of the Dales, where her people once ruled, and to be among primarily humans while those who were her kin were separated out into the rest of the city.

“Who would I need to speak to if I wished to learn more about the affairs of the city?” she asked, looking away from the palace and out over the wall that separated the upper quarter from the rest. Past the edge of the city, she could see the dark green swell of the forest stretch out to the horizon.

“Why, _that_ would be the Ambassador Briala.” Morrigan looked at her from the corner of her eye, a curious expression upon her face. “But to take such an interest in the city; you must have a reason.”

“Why should I not learn more about the intricacies of Halamshiral?” If Morrigan was to feign ignorance, then Lavellan would do the same.

It seemed that this approach did little more than make the other woman laugh. “Ah, but excuse me. I know of your interest, Duchess. This city was once the seat of your people’s power. Your ancestor, if I am not mistaken, ruled from here. Lord Shartan of Dales.” Once more, her expression grew sly. “As you are now it’s lady.”

“So I am.”

Morrigan began her slow walk forward; she fairly sauntered as she moved. “If you wish to speak with the Ambassador, you must have an appointment. Well. _You_ are not most; she might see you, if you were to call upon her.”

Lavellan had quite a mind to call upon Ambassador Briala. She had heard a little of her, though not much beyond her name and the fact that she was not human yet occupied a position of some status among the Orlesian politicians. And so it was that she made arrangements to meet with the woman.

To her surprise, she found herself before the ambassador within short order. Morrigan did not come with her, occupied with business of her own, and truth be told this was a meeting which Lavellan wanted to do in private.

Now Lavellan met Briala within the ambassador’s office. It was a starkly simple room, with few of the trappings and adornments that Lavellan had come to associate with the nobility, save for a full length mirror of dull glass and tarnished bronze that stood against the leftmost wall. The ambassador herself was a slender, petite woman with warm brown skin and chestnut hair that seemed threaded with red in the proper light. She was seated behind a desk filled with neatly stacked papers, dressed in green and cream.

“Your grace,” she said, standing as Lavellan entered the room. “I am delighted to finally meet you. Please, have a seat.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you face to face,” Lavellan said, settling into the chair before the desk. She brushed her hands lightly over her skirts.

“How do you find Halamshiral?” she asked, her voice richly accented.

“It is different than I expected,” Lavellan replied. She found her eyes draw to the mirror that hung upon the wall; it seemed as though small designs were etched into the frame, though she could not tell from here. She refocused upon the ambassador. “What can you tell me of Halamshiral, ambassador?”

Briala gave a small, almost amused smile. “It is a crowning jewel of Orlais. Surely you have seen the Winter Palace in all its splendor. So named as it has long been the retreat of the empress and her family during the late months of the year, though they will attend far earlier this year.”

“I have seen it,” said Lavellan. She sat up quite straight in her chair, meeting the ambassador’s eyes. “I am far more interested in the state of the rest of the city, however.”

“Ah. I suspected as much.” Briala’s smile grew a shade larger. “There are very few who would take a great interest in those of the city who do not inhabit the upper quarter. We had hoped that you would, though I thought it best not to assume. Your letters, however, lead me to believe so, and it is good to see such things confirmed.”

Lavellan barely blinked. “Then you are, in fact, this mysterious _B_ who I have had the pleasure of exchanging letters with,” she said. Again, the ambassador smiled; she dipped her head slightly into a nod.

“I can not, of course, confirm that. I shall simply say that it has been a pleasure to receive your letters.” She leaned forward against her desk, lacing her fingers together before her. “I would advise cautious, your grace. Halamshiral is many things, and it may eat you alive if you let it, and often even as you fight to stay afloat. I pray that does not happen.”

***

That the Grand Duchess of Dales was visiting Halamshiral caused quite a stir; even more so that she stayed with the new court enchanter. Lady Morrigan, it seemed, was regarded with caution by most, and outright distaste only by the few who dared brave her or the empress’s temper.

Lavellan found herself entertaining more than one noble over the course of the next several days, all people vying for favor in her eyes, though often there was contempt barely contained within their words and mannerisms. A _dalish_ holding title once more within the Dales? She heard, more than once, that a spell must have been cast over the empress to allow such a thing to happen.

She wondered, of course, how this discourse would change if they knew she was truly the heir to Shartan.

A letter came to her several days into her stay, sealed with the Tethras family crest. Inside, she found not Mr. Tethras’ writing, but wide, large letters written in an unsteady hand.

 _I don’t understand_ , the letter read. _Josephine didn’t want to be married, but she was going to marry him anyway but her heart was flittering fluttering like yours and so was Cassandra’s but no one said anything. She was hurt, hurting, wanting romance and candles but that wasn’t - oh. Oh I see. It was like something out of one of her books, dashing and heroic. Little swords that move like dancers. Why didn’t she say anything sooner? I tried to help, but I only made things worse._

_Varric’s worried. He sees my edges, but doesn’t understand._

There was no name upon the scrap of paper, but she recognized it as from Cole. There was a second piece of paper included.

 _Lady Halla_ ,

_Don’t worry, everyone’s fine. No one’s dead, and no one even ended up bleeding. Much. I tried explaining to the kid what happened, but I think he listens to you best. There was a duel in the street, Seeker fought some noble who was to marry Lady Montilyet, it was all very dramatic and romantic. I’m going to use it in my next serial. I know people who will eat that up._

_The kid’s been odd, though. I think he misses you. He’s not the only one in Haven who does._

_Varric Tethras_

Lavellan chewed upon her thumbnail as she regarded both letters. It did not seem dire, though she could tell from the way the quill had scratched the parchment that Cole had been agitated when writing. He had, in fact, been somewhat off since she had returned from Adamant. He had not, in fact, asked her about what had occurred there, though he had sometimes looked as though something haunted him.

She worried, but she was not certain what was wrong, and he would not tell her.

Still, her stay in Halamshiral was, for the most part, not unpleasant. At least, it was not unpleasant until the end.

Though Mr. Amell was not in Halamshiral with Lady Morrigan, their son was. Kieran was, in general, a delightful presence to have around. He reminded Lavellan in many ways of Cole, with his quiet manner and his large, inquisitive eyes. He was a charming, polite young man, but sometimes she looked at him and she was not entirely certain what he was. She had seen enough oddity in the world now, between spirits and demons, that when colors seemed to bleed brighter at times in his presence, she could only assume that he was not quite what he appeared.

She found herself very glad to be staying with at least part of such a family.

However, it was at the end of her stay, mere days before she meant to depart to return once more to Haven and Skyhold, that something happened which was very bad indeed.

Lavellan was returning from yet another meeting with Ambassador Briala when, quite suddenly, she felt as though the entire world shifted. It was a change in the air, or in the ground, or perhaps in gravity itself. Perhaps it was no more than a premonition, or perhaps it was simply that she was somewhat attuned to the magical, but whatever it was she felt it in her very bones. A worry and terror so deep that it sent her rushing forward.

She found Morrigan and Kieran’s home in complete disarray, things overturned as though someone had torn through them. The door was ajar, but she could not tell if it was from someone entering or leaving. But there was no one within and no one to ask what had occurred, Lavellan ran back outside in hopes that she could find where they had gone.

And so it was that she found Morrigan, within the center of town, no one daring to go near her save for Lavellan herself. She saw her from a distance, a vibrant burst of plum cloth and dark hair, and but she found her most of all from the way that she seemed to crackle with magic, though it was only a sense, only a feeling.

Lavellan pushed forward to where Morrigan stood in the middle of the town square. She looked more frightened than she had ever seen her; so composed was she normally that even the slightest deviation was apparent. But this - her face streaked with tears, the skin beneath her eyes red, her fingers twisting and shredding a handkerchief before her in worry - it was so far from what served as normal for the woman that it could only mean that something had gone horribly, dreadfully awry. It seemed, too, as though she carried magic directly beneath her skin, barely contained, barely held back.

“Lady Morrigan,” she said as she neared her, drawing her attention. Morrigan looked to her, but her eyes seemed unfocused, glassy with tears. “Whatever is the matter? What has happened?”

“He’s gone,” Morrigan said, and her voice that was normally so confident, so regal, shook. “Kieran has gone and I _cannot_ find him! I have looked and looked but he is nowhere!”

Lavellan reached out and took Morrigan’s hands in her own. Fine tremors ran through the other woman; without the boy, Lavellan knew there was no way to calm them. She smelled of lightning and ash.

“I will send people to look for him, or to see where he might have gone,” she said, and Morrigan’s eyes widened. “If anyone has seen where he has gone, I will know.”

“You would do this?” Morrigan asked, and Lavellan nodded. Her fingers tightened their grip.

“Of course I would. Do not worry, we _will_ find your son.”

Now runners were sent out swiftly to search for the boy; it took little time and only a few words in the proper ears. Still, a tense hour passed without news, and Morrigan began only more agitated and fretful. And as she grew more and more worried, she seemed only to grow more vibrant, more strange, more intensely bright with brimming magic such that Lavellan wondered how powerful she would be should she unleash it.

But at the end of the hour, a messenger came to them, out of breath from running.

“He’s gone south,” she said with little preamble, before she bowed deeply to both of them. “Your Grace. My Lady.”

“What do you mean, he’s gone south?” There was a dangerous, wild edge to Morrigan’s words. “South _where?_ Tell me, or I will -”

“ _Morrigan_.”

The messenger’s eyes had gone quite wide, and she looked as though she would rather be anywhere else. “I don’t know! He was seen boarding the train south. It only goes one way, but I could supply a list of stops -”

All of the bluster had gone out of Morrigan. Though she stood, it was as though her body hung, her shoulders slumped, her head bowed.

Lavellan waved the messenger away; she was all too happy to leave. Then she turned to Morrigan, placing her hands upon her shoulders.

“We will head south at once,” she said. “As soon as the next train departs. We _will_ find your son, Morrigan.”

Morrigan said nothing. There was a furrow between her brows, deep in worried thought.

“He went...south,” she said softly, as though attempting to puzzle something out. “ _Why_ would he do this?”

“Shall I send word to Mr. Amell?” Lavellan asked her, though she had no idea where to find him, given that he had supposedly left Orlais for research matters somewhere in the north.

At that, Morrigan shook herself from her stupor.

“No,” she said, her voice still harsh and worried. “He need not be troubled in this matter. Please, help me find Kieran, and none of this will matter.”

***

They boarded the next train, taking very little with them. Morrigan was frantic, and it was such an odd state to see her in that Lavellan herself was rattled.

Though she did not know Morrigan as well as she would like, and her son even less, it seemed so strange that the boy had run off. He was quite young, and seemed to care for both his parents quite deeply, and for him to have managed to take a train and disappear seemed improbably.

She wondered, privately, if this was somehow tied to the way he sometimes seemed so more vibrant than everything around him, like he was something _more_ than what was real. He was not, she knew, the same as Cole was, but she wondered if there were more similarities between the two boys than she had previously considered.

The train rumbled beneath and around them, and the countryside whipped by in a blur. Each time they slowed and came to a stop, to a station, Morrigan would sit alert, and she would seem, so suddenly, like the brightest thing in existence, her eyes like stars and her lips like crushed currant. And just as suddenly, that light would go out.

“Should we get off here and look?” Lavellan would ask her after each of these episodes. Morrigan would shake her head, once more looking as worried and terrified as before.

“He is not here,” she would say, and Lavellan did not press her as to how she knew.

Eventually, they came to the very end of the rail, and it was there that they finally departed the train. It had grown very late indeed, so late that it was very early, and the morning sun was just beginning to peek from behind the mountains. Lavellan had dozed in the train car, but she felt bleary eyed and as though her head was stuffed with cotton as they stumbled off the train.

“He is not here,” Morrigan said, standing in the middle of the train platform, wringing her hands before her until her nails began to bite into her skin. “He is _gone_. I - _oh_. Oh.”

She looked out at where the forests rose just past the edge of that last town, at the trees that rose up so as to touch the very sky, and she went impossibly white.

“He’s gone into the forest,” she said, her voice so very hoarse. “ _Why?_ Why would he do this?”

“Morrigan, how do you know?” Lavellan finally asked, so tired that she longed only to sit down upon the ground and sleep. “We might have passed the town where your son has gone miles back, yet you insist he is not there without looking. _What_ is it that you know, which assures you he is within the forest?”

And Morrigan turned to look at her, and she seemed very great and very bright and very terrible. “There are many things in this world that are beyond what mere mortals might assume,” she said, her voice low, calm, and she seemed so very sure of herself. “What secrets do you think are hidden just beyond your reach?”

But Lavellan was weary and she was not dazzled. “I know there are secrets in this world,” she said. “I have seen some, and others must surely exist. I am merely trying to help you find your son, and I am _concerned_ that we might have overlooked him. Please, Morrigan. If you would explain why you know he is in the forest, where we might very well never find him among the trees.”

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared otherwise, Morrigan was nothing more than a woman once more, frightened and desperate to find his son.

“There is something in the forest which calls,” she said, as though the weight of a thousand years lay upon her. “It hungers, but I have avoided it for as long as I can remember. Once, a girl with a mirror left the heart of the forest, and now her son returns.”

Lavellan set her hand upon Morrigan’s wrist. “Okay,” she said, and though her limbs were heavy with fatigue, she did not allow herself to waver. “I will arrange a carriage to take us into the forest.”

As the sun rose fully above the horizon, Lavellan found herself attempting to negotiate with a coachman to take them into the forest.

“I won’t go there, not for anything you can pay me,” said the man, shaking his head furiously. He had seemed eager enough to take the job when she had approached, yet as soon as she said that they wished to enter the Arbor Wilds the man had turned white as a sheet. “No one who goes into that forest comes out the same. There are wild things in there.”

“If you will not take us, then I will _buy_ the coach from you. I must go into the wilds,” she insisted, but the man was so shaken that he would not consider it.

“Miss? I mean - my lady. I’ll take you,” said an unsteady voice, and Lavellan turned to see a slender young man, in an ill-fitting coat and shoes too sizes too big. His ears stood out prominently from beneath his red hair, as large and angular as her own.

“It’s _your grace_ ,” hissed the other man, but a tired smile had broken upon Lavellan’s face.

“You are from Hawaren’s clan, aren’t you?” she asked him, for his face was familiar though she could not place his name.

He bobbed his head. “I am. Loranil - that’s my name. I was there when you visited us some months ago.”

Lavellan felt a great sense of relief, and her smile was true and genuine. “Ma serannas, lethallin. I would be much obliged if you would take us into the wilds.”

It took only a little to learn that the young man had found a job in the small orlesian town; he was good with horses, and the clan had been in need of money. He was, however, not as frightened of the forest as the orlesian coachman.

“There are strange things in the forest,” Loranil said as they boarded into the coach. “Even we dalish rarely go too far within. But I’ll take you wherever you need to go and see you back safely.”

“Thank you, Loranil,” Lavellan said, and he nodded as the carriage door was closed firmly behind them.

They crossed the last of the plains, and the forest edge loomed up before them like a great green wave. Tired as she was, Lavellan found herself drawn to the window of the carriage, unable to look away as they left the golden grasslands behind and everything became verdant and green.

Deeper and deeper they went into the forest, the world becoming wild and fierce around them. Trees like mountains rose up around them, draped in moss so green that it was akin to the emerald she wore on her finger.

Through all, Morrigan did not stop fretting, and Lavellan could not fault her. Her _son_ was gone, and even with an idea of where he be headed, there was no certainty they would find him.

She dozed on and off throughout the morning, so tired that the rocking of the carriage and the warmth of the air lulled her into sleep. Her eyes would slip shut and she would drift away, to dream in bits and starts of creatures with great curling antlers and large monsters with many, _many_ eyes. And then she would wake, to find Morrigan hollow eyed and pale beside her, and the forest around them grown even more wild.

It was after one of these short tumbles into dream that she woke to find she had slumped against the side of the coach; she opened her eyes to look right out of the window, out into the damp and green depths of the forest. And as she looked out, she thought she saw something gleaming like gold, and between the trees a great horned creature leaped and ran.

It was only for a moment, and when it was gone she was not certain if it had only been the remnants of a dream.

As the carriage carried them further, the road became more and more overgrown. Ferns and small plants, roots that had grown up through the earth. The wheels rattled over uneven ground, jolting them harshly as they rattled along.

And still deeper into the forest they went. Lavellan looked to Morrigan in askance, but the other woman simply twisted her hands in her lap, staring out the window.

As the hour grew later and afternoon began to turn to evening, Morrigan drew in a sharp breath.

“ _There_ ,” she said, and she leaned out of the carriage window. “There! Through the trees, you fool! Do you not see that house? _That_ is where we are going!”

Lavellan frowned at how she called Loranil a fool, but she leaned forward to attempt to catch a glimpse of what the other woman saw. “What is it, Morrigan?”

“ _Look_.” Morrigan moved away from the window and allowed Lavellan the space she needed to see clearly.

At first, she could see nothing but the trees and the rush of the river they had been following for some time. And then, slowly, she saw something, appearing suddenly through the dense foliage.

It was a house, nestled deep within the forest, near overgrown with vines and shaded by the branches and leaves of the great giants of the forest. The river wound past it, she saw, and there were rushes that grew thick before the path that lead to its gates.

Perhaps _house_ was not the right term for it, she thought as they drew closer. For what had at first seemed like no more than an old wretched thing made of wood now seemed like stone that sank back into the land and into the hills, sprawling backwards until she could not see it for the plants.

“Shall we go there?” asked Loranil, and beside her Morrigan seemed to quake.

“Yes! _Yes_ , that is where we are going!”

Lavellan set her hand upon Morrigan’s. “Please. Tell me what you know.” But Morrigan only shook her head.

The air was warm and filled with the scent of pollen and the rot of leaves and wood. As they stepped from the carriage, Lavellan’s feet sank into a golden-green carpet of leaves and ferns. The walkway was carved of white stone, and as they walked forward she saw that what she had originally mistaken for cracks in the foundation were creeping vines spreading like veins.

At the top of the stairs stood a man.

“And so trespassers come once more into the sanctuary,” he said, and there was something strange about the way he spoke. “Tell me, why have you come?”

At first, a burst of sunlight that cut through the trees obscured his face and form from their view, but then a cloud passed before the sun and the dazzling brilliance of the forest faded. And as Lavellan looked up at the man she saw the high planes of his cheeks and the tall peaks of his ears. He wore a coat of an old style embroidered in gold and copper; his hair was very long and very white, caught at the nape of his neck.

Morrigan stepped forward, her head held high. “I have come for my son. I _know_ he is here. Where do you hide him? _Speak_ , or I -”

The man’s eyes flashed, and it seemed to Lavellan that the sweet scent of the forest turned electric and sharp, like the brewing of a storm. “No one will enter here without permission,” he said, and his gaze swept over both of them. “No matter _who_ they are.”

It seemed as though he spoke the last directly to her.

“Now see here!” Morrigan took the remaining steps by twos, her skirts caught up in one hand so as not to be tripped upon. “You _will_ let me inside! Kieran! _Kieran!_ I know you are here! _Let me past_.”

There was, then, the sound of laughter caught upon the wind.

“Oh, do let her inside, Abelas. Both of them. Really, we mustn’t be so rude to our guests.”

It was the voice of an old woman, and at the sound of it, Morrigan went rigid and still. And then, before the strange man before them had time to fully step aside, she rushed forward.

Lavellan followed. As she passed him, she could not help but look at the man who had guarded the door. His skin was pale and translucent, and his lips seemed almost bloodless; his eyelashes were so white they seemed invisible.

“Go,” he said, and he crossed his arms before him. “Do not keep the Lady waiting.”

The doorway before her opened up to a large hall, with high vaulted ceilings. At first, she thought that the room was encrusted in gold and mirrors, but then she realized that what she saw were mirrors. So many of them, an entire hall of glass and golden frames.

In the center of the hall, she saw Morrigan, stopped as though petrified. And beyond her...beyond her sat a woman.

She was old, but not delicate. Her skin was lined with age and her hair was white and silver, piled up atop her head and threaded with strips of velvet. She wore a gown of deep purple, the edge of the skirt so worn with age that they appeared blackened and tattered, and like what Abelas wore it seemed taken from the fashions of decades before. Silver glittered upon her fingers, at once rings, at once talons, and she sat upon a chair of wrought metal with great wings that curved up to the ceiling.

At her left hand stood Kieran.

“ _Mother_ ,” Morrigan said, and her voice was little more than a gasp.

“ _Ah_ ,” said the woman, and her ruby lips curved into a deadly smile. “Look who returns home at last. I wondered if you might. Though it is not you who I sent for.”

Beside her, Kieran turned large eyes towards his mother.

“I heard her calling,” he said, and a ragged breath fell from Morrigan’s lips. “She said it was time to come home.”

“ _No_ ,” said Morrigan, taking a step forward. Her legs and arms seemed to shake; she seemed a woman torn between two extremes, something that brought her great fear and something which she cared for more than anything else. “You cannot do this. You cannot take him away just because it pleases you, _mother_.”

Lavellan could not tear her eyes away from the ageless woman who sat upon her throne within the hall of mirrors. There was something even more vivid, even more _real_ about her than anything else. Her mere presence seemed to turn everything in the room electric, to send small pinpicks of magic dancing along her skin.

“Morrigan, she’s...your mother? Who...who is she?”

And with that, the woman’s gaze turned fully upon Lavellan. She felt the sudden urge to run or to cower, but she did neither. Her spine cracked as she stood even straighter; her chin lifted and she stared at the woman as though they were equals.

The old woman laughed.

“And look at what has found its way into this place. Such a proud creature, wearing the memories of a time long since lost. You grasp at things you cannot understand. But where are my manners! I have many names, which you may know. I am Flemeth, the witch who haunts the wilds. Your people call me Asha’bellanar for the many years that I have walked these lands. Once, long ago, I was called Mythal. _You_ may call me any or all of these things, but I think that _Lady Flemeth_ may ring truest at this moment in time.”

A small puff of air - almost a gasp, almost a cry - escaped from between Lavellan’s clenched teeth. She knew those names, all of them. Every one, and the last - _Mythal_ , like something out of old stories, from before her people fell.

“That’s…”

“It does not matter,” said Morrigan, and she took a step forward that seemed labored. “It does not matter who or what you are, mother, you will _not_ have Kieran!”

‘Won’t I?” Lady Flemeth looked to her daughter in curious amusement. “There are prices to be had for all magic, Morrigan. To take a piece of it from here out into the world where magic is little more than an ember of what it once was - you knew it could not last.”

“I don’t...I don’t understand.” Lavellan looked between all of them. “What are you _talking_ about? Kieran’s just - he’s a boy.” Even as she said it, some part of her knew it wasn’t true.

“There are many things in this world,” said Lady Flemeth, and there was something in her manner, something about how she looked at her that made Lavellan feel as though she could see right through to her very bones. “You, I believe, have seen more than most. But not enough, never enough. This world is not what it once was, and if you were to peel back the skin of everything, you would see that there is something missing, something which can never be replaced.”

“Magic,” she said, the word soft upon her lips. Lady Flemeth’s mouth split into a wide, terrible smile.

“ _Yes_ ,” she said. “And what do we have here, but vessels of magic? Oh, they wear the faces of people, but do they not burn all the brighter?”

“My son is no _vessel_ ,” said Morrigan, and she looked as though she wished to rush at her mother, to steal her son away, but something invisible stopped her. “You cannot do to him what you would have done to me!”

“Can’t I?” Lady Flemeth tilted her head to the side, regarding her daughter with a sudden sense of severity. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment she was silent. “I will offer a trade, then. One for the other. Either the boy now, and I will leave you alone forever. Or I will let him leave with you now, and someday you will come when I call for you, no matter where you might be.”

“My son stays with _me_ ,” Morrigan said, with not even a moment of hesitation. “I may be many things, but I will not be to him the mother you were to me.”

It seemed, for a moment, that a look of sadness crossed over Lady Flemeth’s face. But then it passed, and she looked down to the boy at her side.

“Come here, Kieran,” she said, and the boy tilted his head up to her. She set her fingers to the skin of his forehead, and it seemed as though, for one brief instant, all the color surrounding the two of them flared bright and brilliant. And then the next, he was just a boy.

“There,” she said, as Kieran looked up at her with wide eyes. “It is done. You will be just a human for as long as you wish.”

“I will?” he said, and then he smiled and broke away from her, running back to his mother’s side. Morrigan caught him as he threw his arms around her waist, holding him tightly to her.

“That’s it?” she said, and there was a break in her voice. Lady Flemeth shook her head softly.

“Our world is ever separated from the magic that once was. You and your son were never in any danger from me.”

Morrigan’s arms tightened around Kieran; she looked at her mother and bit down upon her lip as though she wished to say more. But then she, too, shook her head and set her hands upon Kieran’s shoulder, turning to usher him from the hall. “We should return. I do not wish to linger here.”

“Of course,” said Lavellan, but even as Morrigan and Kieran began to exit from the manor, she slowed her steps, eyes drawn to the mirrors. She cast one more look behind her, to where Lady Flemeth sat, and that was when she heard someone speak.

“Is your business concluded, Mythal? I -”

It was a familiar voice, and it faltered and failed even as Lavellan turned to look towards the door that branched off from the hall of mirrors. Her heart made a great jump within her chest, painful and hopeful all at once. She felt as though, for an instant, all the breath had been pulled from her lungs. Her blood stilled, her mind stopped. She saw, standing there, in the door, a sight that took every confidence she had and shattered them.

He stood there, as real as he had ever been, and yet there was something greater about him. He seemed vibrant here, like Morrigan or Kieran - no, bright like Lady Flemeth, where the colors and shapes that comprised him stood out in stark relief to everything else. He wore no coat and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows; she saw paint upon his fingertips and marring his wrists.

“What excellent timing you have,” said Lady Flemeth, and there was something wicked about the curve of her lips. “You might have waited a moment longer to appear.”

“Mr….Mr. Solas,” she said, and it was then that she saw how still _he_ was. How he appeared frozen there, startled like a deer caught unexpectedly in the forest. His eyes were widened, and she saw his hands shake.

Beside her, Lady Flemeth laughed.

“Solas? What name is this? A fitting name, but a true name? No, your _grace_ , this is our cousin. _Fen’harel_ , the last lord of Arlathan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you he'd be back soon!


	29. In which Lavellan learns something in the heart of the forest

She had though her heart had stopped, and perhaps it had at the sight of him, but now it burst forward into rapid pattering. She felt, for an instant, as though her skin had turned to fire; she felt the dance of nervous agitation skittering along her cheeks and down her throat.

“That,” Lavellan said, her words catching in her throat. “That cannot be. It is quite impossible.”

But he stood there, frozen, and she heard no denial. She stared at him with abject horror, but suddenly all about him seemed to crystallize, to become clear.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said, slowly, carefully, for the moment was delicate, like fragile glass which could shatter within an instant.

“I am the Grand Duchess of Dales now,” she said, and she felt distinctly removed from herself. Like her head was filled with fluff and sawdust, and her tongue felt thick within her mouth. “It seems we’ve _both_ improved our titles since we last saw one another.”

She saw his face twist; he was pained by how she spoke, and somehow she could not stand that. She could not, in that moment, entertain the notion that he felt anything at all about this meeting, for all she could focus upon was the dawning sensation that he had _lied_.

 _Fen’harel, last lord of Arlathan_.

“You must have questions,” he said, and he looked at her and she looked at him, and quite suddenly she felt as though she wanted to be anywhere but _here_.

“No,” she said, and surprise bloomed upon his face. “I have no questions for you, Lord Fen’harel. Not a one.”

And then, with the need to fall to flight coiled so tightly within her stomach, she spun upon her heel and she ran.

It seemed to her like that day in the snow, half a year before. When Envy had tried to consume her and she had fled out into the cold. Only now, there was nothing supernatural about what caused her feet to move, and the cold that spread from her chest out to her fingers and turned her cheeks to ice.

“Wait!” she heard him call, but she was past the door, past a surprised Abelas - she was running down the stairs and out upon the leaves and ferns of the forest floor. “ _Please_.”

He caught her hand.

She was stopped so suddenly that she nearly fell; his skin burned against hers. She could not look at him, and she felt as though her heart might burst if she did. “Let me go.”

“Please, _vhenan_ , let me explain.”

She choked. She felt as though her entire body jolted forward, and she could not breath.

“Do not call me that,” she said, and she twisted in his grip. Her wrist slipped from his grasp, but as she turned her eyes met his. “Do _not_. I cannot - I do _not_ want to hear this. Why are you here? Why are you - _why did you lie?_ ” But she shook, she shook and she did not want to know.

“There are reasons why. I never meant for you to find out like this -”

“Then you could have told me.” She wanted to shake him. She wanted to run. “ _Why_ didn’t you? Why didn’t you _stay?”_

“If I had told you, before, would you have listened?”

“Maybe! I don’t know! But I know it would have been better than this - for two months I waited and I missed you and I _loved_ you the entire time you were gone, you took part of my heart when you left and yet _here you are_ and I find that you were not who I thought you were the entire time!” She pressed her hand to her breast, and she fought for breath. “You’re Lord Fen’harel. You’ve been him this whole time. Was there any part of Mr. Solas that was real?”

She could not look at him, at the expression upon his face. “You saw more of what was real than most,” he said, and she didn’t know what was worse - that she wanted it to be true, or that it might have been.

“No wonder you have no care for the dalish,” she said, hoarsely, desperate to no longer be there, standing before him, with her heart aching so terribly. “You already have everything that was stripped from them; what care would you have for their suffering when you are already a lord in your own right.”

He looked as though she had struck him.

And she could bear it no longer, and so she ran. Out into the forest, and away from him.

***

There was something in the forest, some magic perhaps wild or perhaps old; she had sensed something of it as they had ridden through it in the carriage, and even more of it when they had gone within the overgrown manor. But now, out within the thick of the trees and the plants, she felt it ever more.

At first, her mind and heart were in such turmoil that she could concentrate on little else. She was driven only by the need to get away, to find some place quiet where she could think and calm the rapid beating of her heart. She ran through the undergrowth, her skirts held up by her hands in great bunches of fabric; beneath her feet, twigs and old leaves crackled and crunched. She heard only the pounding of blood within her ears.

But, eventually, her legs began to ache and her lungs began to burn and so she came to a stop beside a great tree, pressing one hand to its moss covered bark to steady herself. And it was then that she came to look at what was around her.

The forest around her burst with color; the light from the sun that filtered through the canopy turned the greens to gold, and great flowers in purples and pinks and blues flourished upon fallen trees and in the crevices of rocks. Vines and ferns, bushes and shrubs - there was so much life here, like she had never seen before. Not even in the Dales, where the forests still grew tall and wide, or in the marshes near Wycome where the rushes grew thick.

Lavellan tipped her head back and she looked up. Up, to the canopy above, where the limbs of the trees stretched forth. There were birds nesting among the branches, so high above; she could hear their songs and calls.

And at once it was as though the silence lifted; no longer was everything only the beating of her heart. She heard the birds, the babble of water over rocks, the sounds of the forest all around her.

Eventually, she pushed away from the tree, and there, so far away from anyone who might see, she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, letting the coarse curls free. She undid the laces and tied them together so as to drape them over her shoulder, and she pulled her stockings off and stuffed them within her shoes. And then she stood there, in that secluded area of the Arbor Wilds, swallowed by the trees and foliage, head ringing with the sounds of the forest. Here, so far from the cities, so far from the smoke and metal, lost within the rush of trees and plants and _life_ she felt...different. Unfettered, apart from what she had been turned into.

The air smelled of honey and earth and _magic_ , and she wondered if this was how, once, the rest of the land had been.

There was magic in the heart of this forest.

And so she began to walk, not certain as to where, and she trod along emerald moss, her feet bare and her hair unbound. She followed the babble of the river until it grew loud within her ear, and then she followed the water as it wound through the trees.

But as much as the sight and sounds of the forest soothed her, her heart still pounded in her chest even as the hours passed by. Her palms itched, and it was only the heartbeat of the forest that kept her from falling to her knees and allowing herself to weep. It was a knife in her heart, what he had said, what he had turned out to be. To lie, to have been who he said.

 _Lord Fen’harel._ _Last of the house of Arlathan_.

_Fen’harel._

She could laugh now, to remember her words when they first met. _You are dalish!_ she had said, and oh how those words seemed so foolish now. No, he was not dalish. He had never been dalish. _Lord Fen’harel of Arlathan_ , and no matter how lost or forgotten that family was, how little that title would mean to the lords and ladies of Orlais or Ferelden, _she_ knew that name, as she knew the name of Mythal. She knew who he was, or who he had been. Who the stories said that he was.

And she had loved him, when he wore a different name.

So she continued to walk through the forest, until night began to fall and the forest began to darken. Only then did it truly dawn upon her how far she was from home. She did not know where to go, where to turn, the road long since abandoned. She had only sought to be away from him, and the forest had been shelter.

 _North_ , she thought, and she turned her head up at the last glimpses of the sun, where it died to the west. She did not know how long she would have to walk or if she would find any place to spend the night, but she would find her way.

But she walked and walked as night settled in around her. The forest grew eerie, sound now like a breath exhaled into the moonlight. She heard the insects and the creatures of the forest, but she felt no fear there.

And then Lavellan found herself upon a riverbank as the moon rose above the treetops. Here, among the ancient paths of the Wilds, plants grew that turned bright when darkness fell; the hush of the forest was like magic, and little lights seemed to spread out before her like a carpet of stars.

There, at the edge of the water, stood a creature familiar and yet completely alien to her. Something beautiful and strange, delicate yet strong. Elegant limbs and a great horned head; she had seen this creature for a moment as they had first entered the forest, she thought, but now she could see fully what it was. A halla, golden and shimmering even in the darkness, stood before her, head raised to meet her eyes.

“Hanal’ghilan,” she whispered, and the halla’s ears flickered towards her. Lavellan took a tentative step towards it, and then another. Feeling as though she were in a story, a legend, Lavellan approached the golden halla, and when she was before it she reached out and was allowed to place her hand upon its nose.

So close, she saw the intricacies of how it’s horns curled; she saw, too, that they were unmarred by carvings or marks, and they were so large and ornate that she wondered how old this creature was. She remembered the dalish boy upon the Dirthavaren, speaking of the golden halla he had seen across the water.

 _Hanal’ghilan appears when the People are in need_.

It was not merely a story, then.

The halla gave a great huff of breath; she felt its nostrils flare beneath the palm of her hand, its skin smooth and warm. And then it did something she did not expect. It bowed before her, sinking to its knees, it’s great head crowned by twisting horns lowered before her.

Lavellan’s breath caught beneath her breast. For a moment, she did not - or could not - understand what it was that she saw. But she knew the halla, had lived with them for all the early years of her life, and she knew - one did not tame a halla. One simply earned their respect, their friendship. And here was this great creature, something out of myth and legend, and it bowed before her.

And so Lavellan did something which she would forever remember. Carefully, so carefully, she set her hands upon the golden halla’s back and she pulled herself astride.

Her skirts bunched up over her knees and her fingers clung at the short hairs upon the halla’s neck. She felt the smooth roll of muscles, the way the halla’s ribs expanded with each breath; it began to walk, to run, and she settled in to the smooth gait, never losing her balance even as it ran faster and faster. To each side of her, the luminescence of the forest turned into a blur of light and dark, and before her she saw only darkness and the way that the horns of the halla glittered.

She did not know how long she rode astride the great golden halla; the forest was a blur around her, and time was counted by the beating of her heart and the number of breaths that she drew. The ground grew more slanted, the incline greater, and the breathing of the halla more labored.

But then, after a time, the halla slowed, and she saw something head of them in the darkness, something that rose up before them as the trees cleared. The stars and the moon were enough for her to make out the general shape - it was another house, though not the one she had left behind. It was old, but not swallowed by the forest.

Before it, she saw the outlines of great statues. As the golden halla neared the front, she saw that the door was guarded by two great stone wolves.

 _Wolves. Always wolves_ , she thought, and her heart ached.

It was then, as they neared the door, that she felt the ring upon her finger heat. It was a curious sensation, and she raised her hand up from where she still clung to the halla to examine it. The emerald gleamed and glowed in the darkness; it was not a trick of the light this time, it was truly lit from within.

 _Magic_.

The golden halla came to a stop before the door, and Lavellan slipped down from its back. She ran her fingers along it’s neck and pet it’s nose.

“Ma melava halani,” she said softly, and the halla snorted. She smiled, a small laugh caught in her throat. “Ma serannas, ma falon.” She pressed her cheek against its neck for one moment, before she stepped away and turned towards the doors.

Now the ring upon her finger was almost too hot; she felt the skin of her hand heat. Still, she took a deep breath and she stepped forward, palm stretched forward. She felt magic in her skin, magic in the air - a bitter, rich taste upon her tongue. As her fingertips brushed against the door, it seemed to light up - spidery lines of light cracked along the surface, and she saw that there was a small indentation in the very center. A locking mechanism, she supposed, and she saw that it was eerily similar to the shape of her ring.

She could not remove the ring from her finger still, but she could turn it; she twisted it about until the emerald lay inward, and then she pressed her palm against the door and fit the ring into the lock.

Perhaps it was the magic in the ring, or perhaps it was her blood. Perhaps not simply anyone with the ring could have opened the door, and only one within whose veins ran the blood of Shartan could. But it did not matter, for the door opened. The magic flared and then dimmed, and the interior of the house lay open to her.

It was now very late and Lavellan was quite exhausted by all that had occurred that day, but she was greatly overcome with curiosity. She glanced behind her once more and saw the golden halla still there; it bowed its head once, and then even as she watched it raced off into the darkness, the moon glinting upon its golden antlers.

And then she turned back to the open door and stepped inside. The doors behind her clicked shut.

It was dark within, but there were unlit braziers upon the walls. Here, within this old, wild place, the sweet magic filling the air, Lavellan felt as though the very magic that was in her own bones was suddenly all the stronger. She lifted her hand and curled her fingers; the first of the braziers sprung to life, a blue flame burning brightly. With each flick of her fingers another lit; it felt as easy as breathing, and she wondered if, once, this is what all magic had been like.

The flames illuminated the hall; she knew, instantly, that this place had not been built at the same time as the manor she saw earlier. The style was too different - similar, however, but almost a parody. As though someone had seen a distorted painting and tried to emulate it. And she could see, in place, where inspiration for the designs that her own people use now might have been, but even those were far removed from what she saw here.

Still, the house was undeniably old. There were cobwebs and dust spread throughout the hall, corners strung with years-old silk. What surprised her, as she peered into the first of the rooms that branched off from the hall, as that while things looked old, there were no signs of decay. The drapes upon the windows looked dusty, yet there were no signs of insects having eaten away at the fabric, or time having turned them threadbare. In the second room, she found a desk with papers that had only turned yellow with age, but they did not crumble away at her touch. An inkwell with undried ink.

It seemed an untouched relic of a house, hidden away in the wilds of the forest.

It was in that study that she stopped, for the books upon the wall enticed her, and the desk seemed as though it might be a good place for answers. There were no markings upon the sheaves of parchment left upon the desktop, save for the splattering of ink. She searched the desk instead, pulling at drawers, looking within. The bottom-most drawer was locked, and it was here she saw, once more, the lock shaped in the form of her ring. Again, she pressed the emerald to the lock and slid the drawer open.

Within, she found documents, some rolled and held with string, others carefully tucked within heavy bindings. By the light of the flames flickering in their braziers, she pulled for the papers, spreading them out upon the desk. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, her breath caught in her throat. She pulled forth the first paper and gave a small gasp. They were legal documents, and she held them closer with trembling hands, not quite believing what she was seeing. _I, Andraste, First of House Divine, do hereby cede all my southern lands to Lord Shartan of House Arlathan, now known as Lord of Dales._

She read the papers in disbelief, and as she pulled the next one forth she felt an irrepressible emotion well up within her.

_I, Lord Shartan of Dales, do bestow upon the families of my house the following lands, doing so with full legality and witnessed by Andraste of House Divine._

And there, a list. Of families she knew, each and every one. Saabre, Mahariel, Ralafarin... _Lavellan_. Her family name, listed there, among all the others. Here, in her hands, the documents which had been sealed away and forgotten so that those who called themselves dalish would no longer be able to set foot upon their lands.

She set those papers down, looked to the next. Geneologies - and she nearly dropped them, for she saw there, written down in these old records, a match for what she had found in the documents given to her by Commander Clarel.

It was all here. All the documentation thought lost, everything that had been taken away and hidden when Orlais had taken the Dales.

That irrepressible emotion caught in her chest and her hands and her eyes; she shook as though blown by the wind, at the impossibility of what she held. She wanted to weep at the sight of the documents, at what they meant. At what they could mean.

There were older documents as well, made delicate with age. Impossible things, stretching back through the years, some so old that she could not read more than a few words of a now nearly dead language. But she saw names here - and one, in particular, that drew her eye. _Fen’harel_ , she saw, written there in an old account that she could barely decipher.

The entire structure was impossible. What it held even more so; history, lineages, things thought long forgotten.

She placed the papers back into the box with steady hands, and yet she felt tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

What she could do with these things…

And she wept. Great, shuddering sobs as she closed the box and locked it once more. Her chest heaved and her eyes stung and her tears streaked her cheeks and her jaw and her lips with salt. Here, no one saw her, only the old papers and books and memories of her people hidden away from prying eyes.

But even her tears grew slow and sparse, and eventually she drew herself together, feeling suddenly lighter than she had in weeks. In months. It seemed as though a path had begun to unfurl before her, one which she was not afraid to walk. Not when she had such things to support her as all mysteries held here.

And so she wiped her eyes upon the back of her hand and she picked up her shoes. She ought to find her way from here, until she could return and best use what she had found. Only her ring opened the door - no one would take this from her.

Now, she sought a way out, but to her frustration she found none. It seemed almost as though the path back had been blocked - a curiosity of the magic of the place, she supposed. It could not be helped, then - she would simply find another way out. Barefoot, she walked through the halls of the place, until she came to a room which contained nothing save for several mirrors.

It was not the mirrors themselves that drew her attention, but the magic that seeped from them. It was old magic, musty yet sweet upon the air. Honey and copper, she thought, and something that was not a scent. Something that simply spoke to her of _magic_ and _dreams_.

There were two small mirrors, just slightly taller than herself, and between them a great, old thing that stretched up near to the ceiling. The metal that framed the glass was old and tarnished, wrought gold carved with inlaid leaves and vines and horned creatures. The glass, which could not possibly have been new, was not warped or cracked; it showed no signs of age, not even dust. It was clear, so very clear.

What magic was in this place? Heavy in the air, like the forest had been, and it clung to Lavellan like the remnants of a dream, lacing through her hair and her fingers, sweeping over her cheekbones. Upon her finger, the ring once more grew heated. She felt the crackle of magic, the sting of electricity, the sweet taste on her tongue that was so far removed from all of the demons and the places they had inhabited.

She lifted her hand before her, the ring angled towards the mirror. It’s surface rippled, little waves of silver moving out until the gold frame sent then bouncing back. The glass turned to liquid, the liquid turned to light, and then Lavellan no longer knew what she looked at. Magic, raw and stronger than most she had felt before in her life. Magic as old as this place was, from a time before everything had become dull and small and far removed from what it had once been.

 _This is an Eluvian_ , she remembered Miss Merrill as the old artifact had been revealed. Lavellan looked at this mirror that was not a mirror which stood before her, and she walked towards it, hand outstretched.

“ _Eluvian_ ,” she breathed out, and her fingers touched where the glass had been. The magic was warm and soft, and heat spread up through her fingers into her hand, her arm, until it reached her heart.

And then, once more, Lavellan did something terribly rash and impulsive, and even as she pressed her fingers into the mirror, so did she step forward until her elbow, her arm, her shoulder entered - and then she stepped into it entirely.

She was not certain the specifics of what occurred, but she felt, for a moment, thin and stretched, as though she was at once here and at once there. Every bit of her was incandescent, turned to brilliant light. She felt magic upon her tongue, but she was not entirely certain she had a tongue or a mouth or a body at all.

And then as quickly as the feeling had set on, it was gone, and she stepped from the mirror into another room.

Behind her, the mirror faded until the surface became glass once more, and the emerald upon Lavellan’s finger dimmed until it was only a stone, only a gem and nothing more. The room was suddenly dark, and she was unsure of where she had found herself.

“Ah. I see you have found your way back. A most unusual path to take. Or perhaps the most usual of all, yet one so unused as to be all but forgotten.”

Lavellan twisted her body, searching for the source of the voice. She knew it, though she had only heard it once before.

“Lady Flemeth,” she said softly, though her body had gone taught with tension, the need to flee etched into her very bones.. “I’ve come back to your home, then.”

“A house is not always a home,” she said, a laugh caught in the gravel of her voice. She stepped from the shadows of the room, and though she looked as old as she had before, there was still the same undeniable strength and danger about her. “But you have come back to where you were. And what have you found, in the mirror?” Her lips curved, looking a red darker than blood in the dim light.

“Something of...use,” Lavellan said, and she stepped away from the mirror. She felt wary, and she wondered if Lord Fen’harel still stalked the halls. “Where has Morrigan gone?”

Lady Flemeth stepped counter to her, a slow circling until she stood before the mirror. “My daughter and her son have left,” she said, and there seemed something almost sad in that statement, but only for a moment. “She fancies herself smart, my Morrigan. And perhaps she is.”

Lavellan dipped her head as she looked about the room, towards the open archways and doors. Towards the long stretch of mirrors, each unique to the next.

“He is not here.”

She looked up through her eyelashes towards the old woman, and saw her face split into a smile. Into a laugh.

“I know who you seek. Or run from. He sent you running into the forest; such is his nature. Or is it that he thinks that of himself? I can never tell - is our nature immutable and unchanged, or can we deceive even ourselves as to our purpose?”

“I believe we change,” Lavellan said. Her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears; the elation of finding the old papers had dimmed now that fear danced beneath her breastbone, now that apprehension once more filled her lungs. “I am not as I was before. Are you as you always have been, Lady Flemeth?”

Her lips drew into an even wider smile. A laugh rumbled deep in her throat. “Smart girl, to ask such questions. I see why he likes you. Come, I have something to show you.” She turned, towards the cavernous hall that lead into darkness.

“Why should I trust you?” Lavellan found herself saying as Lady Flemeth began to walk away from her.

“You shouldn’t. That does not mean you cannot _learn_.”

Lavellan watched her retreating back, the long train of ruined fabric that ran from the skirts of her dress, the rich silver embroidery upon the deep raspberry fabric glinting. And then she followed.

The hall grew dark, grew narrow and small, and then it opened up into darkness with no visible walls.. Before her, Lady Flemeth raised her hand; light flickered and bloomed, blue and white, and torches flared into light.

Lavellan could not help the gasp that escaped her lips.

It was a room, round, no edges to it anywhere. Unremarkable, no furniture upon the floor save for an old desk which stood in the center. But along the edges...upon the walls…

“Tell me what you see,” said Lady Flemeth, and Lavellan looked and she saw.

There were paintings upon the walls. Frescos, she believed, though she was not particularly well versed in art styles. They were large, several times her height, stretching up and curving out and filling every inch of the wall.

“I know who painted these,” she said, looking from one to the next. “Mr. Solas…Lord Fen’harel. These are his work.”

“He always did have a sense of artistry.” Lady Flemeth moved to stand beside her. “Always documenting what he saw around him in such a way. A pity no one outside this house will see these. But come, there is one in particular that you should see.” She strode to the far wall, waving a hand in the air, casting light upon it. And Lavellan looked up at the painting upon the wall and her breath caught in her throat.

It was a beautiful painting, elegant in its simplicity. Like the canvas he had given her so shortly before he had left Haven, it employed little shading or contouring - each form was a shape of sharply outline color, the paint thick where it had been laid upon the wall.

But it was _what_ was painted upon that wall that made her breath catch and her head spin and her heart leap within her chest. Though the painting was unfinished, with color and paint only in parts; she could see the entirety of it outlined, she would see what the artist had intended to continue.

Looking up at it, she felt not dizzy, not weak, but undone. Like once again the world had been pulled out from under her.

It was a woman, strong and confident, her face turned up to the sky. Fantastical, as were all the other paintings, an interpretation of life that made it seem far grander than it was in reality. Her hair was dark, thick, coarse curls that were pulled back from her face, and she was clothed in white, fabric that spilled down from her shoulders. Lavellan wondered at the crown of horns that lay upon the woman’s head, at the regality to her. At her feet sprawled a great wolf, a monstrous creature with six eyes, and the woman’s hand lay upon its head.

“Have you considered, my dear, why we assume the wolf the aggressor in all situations?” said Lady Mythal from beside her. Lavellan could not tear her eyes from the painting. “We think a predator only, never considering what a delicate balance there is that it rests within. Tell me, Lady Lavellan, what is one old, lone wolf without a pack? How will he fare, when he finds a great hart in the peak of its life?”

“I don’t understand,” said Lavellan, and she reached out to touch the painting, feeling the thick ridges of paint beneath the pads of her finger. She saw the starburst upon the left hand of the woman in the painting, clasped to her breast.

“It is not the wolf who destroys the halla,” said Lady Flemeth, and she gave a terrible laugh. “For all his plans and schemes, Lord Fen’harel could not predict everything. He certainly did not predict _you_.”

Lavellan pressed her hands to her chest. She bit down upon her bottom lip, but she could not tear her eyes from the painting. She did not wish to understand what it meant, that he had painted her there upon the wall.

_Might I draw you, sometime?_

_You might, Mr. Solas. I would be quite happy if you did._

And he had.

“Where is he?” she found herself asking.

“Gone,” said Lady Flemeth. “Though my daughter and my grandson remain, along with the young man who brought you into the forest. They have been waiting for you.”

She turned to face the old woman, frowning. “How did you know I would be back? I went so far into the forest…”

Lady Flemeth laughed once more. “I didn’t. Or did I? I know many things, and sometimes I am right. But you are here, and they are here, and now you must leave. Perhaps, someday, you will return.”

“But where _is_ he?” she insisted, for there was a part of her that wished to see him, to have him explain, to ask him _why_.

“I suppose he’s gone out into the forest himself. Or perhaps he’s gone west, or east, or somewhere else entirely. If you wait, you might see him here again, but you might wait a long time. If I see him, what should I tell him?”

“I...don’t know,” said Lavellan, and in that moment, she truly didn’t.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this chapter out before Trespasser is out tomorrow. And because I didn't want to keep you waiting after the ending on the last chapter.


	30. In which letters are written and a teacup is nearly smashed

It was a grey morning in Skyhold Manor a week later when Lavellan was woken by the delivery of a letter. It was a peculiar letter, brought by a messenger in the earliest hours of the day, and at first Lavellan was far too bleary eyed and still caught within the last vestiges of her dreams to understand what it was she held.

But then she recognized the even, elegant handwriting, and she felt at once instantly awake. Her heart pounded rapidly within her chest as she unfolded the paper, and with hands that trembled and shook the letter like a leaf, she read.

***

_Grand Duchess Lavellan,_

_Doubtless you are angry with me, and in that you have every right. I have deceived you for the past year, and while I regret the pain that this has caused you, I cannot apologize for that deception._

_It is an explanation that I owe you, more so than an apology, though I owe you far more than that._

_You have heard my name now, and doubtless you have heard an explanation of who I am. The house of Arlathan is a meaningless name now, it is no more than a forgotten story from when are people still ruled in this land. The title I carry is all but worthless, though it is known to you. I know well the tales that the dalish tell of me, and they do speak of_ me _. Of all the impossibilities you have seen, surely this is simply one more which you can accept. I am the very same Fen’Harel who your tales say tore our society to the ground long before Shartan ever ruled the Dales._

_I meant to tell you who I was the evening I came to you. But it seems I am a coward at my core, for I found it easier to leave you than to chance that you would reject me upon learning my true nature. I am the one who tore Arlathan to the ground, in hopes that it would rise anew with the corruption and the excess which had plagued it no more, but I was wrong. My actions allowed everything that occurred after. The world I left was one where magic was little different than the very air we breathe, where my people once walked like gods and our empire was greater even than Tevinter or Orlais could imagine. I woke to find a world so changed that it was unrecognizable._

_Here is the second truth which I have kept from you: it is I who set Corypheus upon your heel, though I did not know it at the time. Upon learning of Justinia Divine’s impending death, I revealed certain facts to Corypheus, in hopes that he would pursue her land and titles. Had he succeeded in convincing the court of Orlais that his family’s ancient claim - one which had been legally given to those who founded Orlais - then I might have made my case that the lands themselves should be restored to the oldest of true claims. Which would have been my own._

_I would not, of course, have revealed myself as that same man who destroyed our empire, for none who have not seen what you have could have dared believe it. But I intended then to simply use Corypheus to accomplish what I could not openly do. In this, he failed me terribly._

_And then there was you. In all of my planning, I could not have accounted for you. You truly and irrevocably changed_ everything _. I knew, from the moment I saw that ring upon your finger, who you were, though I did not, of course, know what the late Grand Duchess had intended for you. I told you the truth of the origin of that ring, but not the entirety of it. For I was the one who bestowed that ring to one of the ancestors of Shartan in the years when Arlathan was in decline. One of your ancestors. I should have realized then what potential you had, but I had little faith in the dalish. For a thousand years, they had been unable to rise from the ashes where Orlais and Tevinter had placed them; what reason did I have to think that you would be any different?_

_But you were. And I should have left the moment that I realize this. But I did not, at that was my downfall._

_To be near you was a distraction. To be near you was to be blinded with possibility, for myself and for your people. But I had begun our friendship beneath a pretense, and to tell you the truth had the potential to unmake everything. By the time I realized what path it was that we were upon, the moment to reveal the truth had long since passed. You had become everything, when you should not have. You were everywhere, in every breath of air and in every drop of rain. You were, and are, the beating of my heart, and try as I might you have become an irreplaceable part of me._

_I write with no expectation, simply to provide you with the answer that you deserve. For you have done what I was unable to do, and for that you will always have my respect and you shall always be my heart._

_Lord Fen’Harel_

***

For some time after reading his letter, Lavellan did not move. She sat at the window seat within the study, the letter in her lap, her eyes unfocused. Should someone been watching her, they would have noted how very still she was, for her hands did not shake and her breast rose and fell with no quickness of breath.

She felt so very numb, and for a time her whole world was narrowed to only that letter.

And then she folded the letter and replaced it within its envelope; this she tucked into into a locking drawer within her desk. This done, she stood still for a moment more, before she turned and left the room.

There was a nervous energy growing within her breast and she was uncertain of how to release it. The anger and dismay that had followed her since her sojourn into the Arbor Wilds came back fully, but so did something more. The small speck of hope that had glimmered when she saw him again, that had grown when she saw the painting upon the wall. That hope was now lodged beneath her breastbone, snug against her ribcage, filling her heart and her lungs and stretching up into her throat.

Hope, and yet still anger. Hope, and yet still betrayal. His letter threw their every interaction into a stark new light, gave his every word new meaning. Was he, truly, the man he seemed in the end, or was the Mr. Solas she had known simply a fabrication never meant to become more than a convenient lie?

Did she, in fact, truly love him when she was no longer certain she had ever known him at all? When the quiet artist who sometimes infuriated her turned out to be an ancient lord from a time before the fall of her people? When he had lied to her so thoroughly, when he had had his hand in _everything?_

“You want to love him, because you still feel it. It’s in your heart, but it’s disconnected. How much was him, but it was _all_ him. Just with bits that were hidden.”

“Cole,” Lavellan said softly, finding Cole balanced at the top of the stair, upon the banister. “Please.”

“He’s not coming back, is he?” he asked, hopping down from the rail and following her down the stairs. “He’s - _oh_. Hurt, hiding, you want to forget - but what if -”

“Cole, please don’t. Not right now.” Normally, she did not mind. Normally, when Cole spoke it helped. But right now she -

“You don’t want to think about it, but you are. I’m not helping.” He looked downcast.

Lavellan felt so worn out, so stretched that she nearly missed it. “You don’t always have to help,” she said, and Cole stopped where he stood upon the stair.

“Yes,” he said, and there was something strange in his voice. “I _do_. If I don’t, what am I?”

She stopped, at the base of the stairs, and looked up at him. There had been something strange about him since she had returned from Adamant, but he had not spoken on it, and in truth she was not certain if it had been a trick of the light or of her mind. Sometimes, now, he seemed even more insubstantial, more made of tissue and dream. Sometimes, he was solid, so real that she nearly forgot he was a creature of magic.

“Cole, what is wrong?” she asked then.

He began to pace on the one step he stood upon, feet making no noise. “You want me to tell you, but you don’t know. I’m - I’m - you saw me in Adamant. You saw what I could be, if I wasn’t me!”

“Cole, you’re not a demon like what I saw in Adamant,” she said, but it did not help.

“But you saw Wisdom. Wisdom, knowing, thinking, but just a shade of Pride, or Pride just a shade of Wisdom turned wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , just like I could be.” He looked at her, his eyes large and luminous. “I don’t want to be a _demon_.”

“ _Cole_ ,” she said, and he stilled. She lowered herself down upon the foot of the stair and patted her hand beside her. “Sit with me.”

He descended slowly down the stairs, sitting down there. She could see through his shoulder; his knees were not there.

She put an arm around his shoulder; she could not feel him. It was as though there was only air.

“I want you to tell me what you are,” she said, smoothing her fingers over where his hair should be.

“I’m a spirit,” he said. His voice trembled. “I _help_.”

She wondered why she had not seen this, before. The edges of him, dissolving away. Had she been so preoccupied with everything else that she had forgotten him?

 _Yes_.

Despair, clinging to the corner of her mind. She pushed it away, as though it were no more than a cobweb.

“That’s not all,” she said, softly. A muscle in her arm twinged slightly, from being held in the air with nothing to support it. “I want you to tell me who you are, Cole.”

His form wavered even more. “I don’t know what you mean,” he whispered.

She did not know if this was the right way to do this; she did not want him to fade away, not this spirit boy who had come into her home and grown so dear to her. “Like this. I am Lavellan. I am a dalish woman from the marshes outside of Wycome. I grew up herding halla, and the smell of them makes me feel like I am home more than anything else. I like dancing, even when I trip over my feet.” She brushed back his hair, or tried. There was nothing there, save for the image of it. “Sometimes, my heart jumps like it is a bird in my ribcage, and I want nothing more than to hide away from everything. I love when Bull lifts me up in a hug, and I _hate_ radishes. I want to put everything in the world right, but I can’t, and that makes me terribly sad sometimes. I love easily and often, because my heart is very large and I want to believe that everyone has some goodness in them.” She set her free hand over her heart, fingertips against her bodice. “That’s who _I_ am. Who are you, Cole?”

“I…” She saw his tongue flicker out to wet his chapped lips. “I - I’m Cole. I _help_. I - I - “

“You like the birds that sit upon the windowsill at breakfast,” she said, very softly, and saw his eyes dart to her. “You think the cardinals look like blood and rubies, and the bluebirds remind you of Lady Josephine.”

“I like the birds,” he echoed. “And I - the rabbits. I like them, too. They are soft, but they hide sometimes when things are too loud. Sometimes, things are too loud for me. They’re too loud for you, too.”

“They are,” she agreed. Beneath her fingertips, it seemed as though something was there. Delicate, like a feather. But there. “What else?”

“I like Varric’s books,” he said, stronger than before. “I read them over Cassandra’s shoulder when I stayed with her. He’s very bad at description and he’s very fond of writing setting things in caves when he doesn’t know what else to do. He calls me kid, and I like it.”

Lavellan smiled; his shoulder curved beneath her arm. “Mr. Tethras likes you,” she said. “Keep going.”

“I…” He reached up and pressed his hands over his heart. “I want to help people. I want them to be happy and content, all the pieces of their hearts and their heads shining and full. Not grey and dull and full of despair. I want to help, but I didn’t, not always, and I - when I cannot help, it hurts. It _hurts_ , because I want to help.”

He no longer seemed as transparent, but his edges still wavered. He was just barely there, like a too-thin shell of an egg. Delicate, easily shattered.

He wet his lips again. His voice cracked. “I was a boy. Or I saw a boy. I was a spirit, and there was a boy, and he was dying.” His breath hitched. “No one would save him, and I tried, but he was too sick and too cold and too hungry, so I stayed. I stayed, and he died, and I became _him_. I became him, but everything still hurts, and I don’t know what I am.”

 _Oh_.

All the breath went out of her. “Oh, Cole,” she said, and he tucked his head against her, his chin digging into her shoulder. “Cole, what do you want to be?”

“I...I…”

She brushed his bangs from his face; his hair so fair and bleached as though by the sun. “You came out of a dream, but that’s not what you are. You can walk in places where other spirits cannot. You are kind and good and filled with life and magic and love. Sometimes you are here, and sometimes you are not. You are _you_ , Cole, and you can be whatever you’d like to be.”

There was a vein beneath his skin upon his face. It ran blue below the translucent skin. She saw the pulse in his throat, a heart beating blood. His edges were no longer so faded.

“I want to be here,” he said finally. “I want to be myself, but not despair. Never despair.”

“You don’t have to be,” she said, and Cole hid his face in her shoulder. She wrapped both her arms around him. “You are Cole. You are here, and you are loved.”

***

Though she did not speak of it to anyone else, the encounter with Cole rattled her, but it seemed to have helped with the unease the boy had been in since her return from Adamant. She was not well versed enough in spirits and the magic pertaining to them, but she felt that there was something unique about him. He was, she thought, something between a human and a spirit. Perhaps he would never be either of them fully; perhaps he would. It would be his choice, if it happened. That, she knew.

But it seemed that their talk had put him at ease, for his edges no longer blurred and he seemed more solid and real whenever she saw him. Mr. Cabat spoke of him to her more often, and Miss Ve’mal mentioned that she was helped by him on more than one occasion.

It was some time later, several days in fact, when Lavellan looked up from writing a correspondence to a barrister in Lydes when the sound of a carriage pulling before the manor startled her.

“She’s upset,” Cole said from where he sat by the window, his nose pressed against the glass. He pushed himself up and away. “Honey in her tea; it will make her feel better. I will get it.”

He was gone before she could ask him _who_ was here, but that question was answered quickly when Lady Leliana was announced.

“My dear, I have dreadful news,” she said as she sat down opposite of Lavellan. “Simply _dreadful_. I thought - oh! What is this?”

Cole had set a cup of tea down before her; he had forgotten the saucer. “It is tea,” he said, blinking at her. “With honey. Did I get it right?” He looked from Leliana to Lavellan and back to Leliana.

“Oh! How dear of you! Yes, but how did you know?”

“You always drink tea with honey when things are not as they should be,” said Cole, and Leliana’s brows rose in surprise. “It’s what _she_ used to make for you.”

If his words rattled her, Leliana’s face did not show it. She sipped at the tea, then set it down. “Thank you, Cole. That is very kind of you. Though, there is little time - my lady, Corypheus has returned to Haven.”

Lavellan went very, very still.

“Has he,” she said, her words so very tightly controlled. “I had rather thought that he and I had concluded any business that we might have with one another.”

Leliana nodded, the red curls of hair that framed her face bouncing with the movement. “So had I. But he is here and it seems he means to confront you once again. I came as soon as I heard, so as to give you time to prepare.”

“Thank you, Leliana,” Lavellan said, even as her stomach clenched uncomfortably and her insides writhed with panic. She never liked her encounters with the man; even the best had been rather unpleasant.

“He’s in the woods,” Cole said, once more at the window. “A carriage, upon the road. Determined, like this time it will work. He has a plan, half formed and malleable, but he thinks too highly of himself. Like his words can shift the world, only they can’t.”

Leliana and Lavellan exchanged glances.

“Not all that much warning,” Lavellan said, and she sighed heavily. “I do _so_ detest that man. I suppose I’ll simply have to act as a courteous host, even though I am certain he will be the _most_ horrid of guests.”

“I _do_ know seventeen ways to make murder look like an accident,” Leliana said, and she sounded so innocent that Lavellan was not certain if she was joking or deathly serious.

When Lord Corypheus was brought into the room some five minutes later, they had arranged themselves in as regal yet careless a way they could. Lavellan sat upon the couch, back ramrod straight, and to her left sat Leliana, still sipping slowly upon her cup of tea.

“Lord Corypheus,” Lavellan said, and her voice was quite even and she managed to keep her distaste for the man from her tone. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Lavellan, a word” said Lord Corypheus, not sparing any time for pleasantries. His tone of voice indicated that whatever he had to say, he did not _truly_ wish to say it to her. Or rather, in the same way he had spoken so many things to her - he spoke as though she was quite beneath his notice, and he only acknowledged her because he had to.

He was, to take a note from Lady Hawke, an absolute _ass_.

“A word?” she said, raising her eyebrows. She glanced to where Leliana still sat, and the look the woman was giving Corypheus could have cut. “A _word?_ My dear Lord Corypheus, a word from you is hardly something which I would spare a moment for. Besides, I have company.”

“And I would not spare a moment for you, save that you have proven yourself a most stubborn adversary.” She was struck, once again, by how very tall he was, for he towered over her and nearly seemed to fill the room to the ceiling. “I would speak to you _alone_.”

“I have _company_ ,” she said yet again. Leliana clicked her fingernails against her teacup and smiled.

For a moment, it looked as though her unwillingness to do as he asked might make Lord Corypheus’ head explode. He turned a rather unattractive shade of red, but then he drew in a deep breath and composed himself.

A shame. Lavellan could have used the delight that would have come with the insufferable man’s head spontaneously combusting.

Lord Corypheus drew himself up to his full, towering height. He clasp his hands behind his back and he looked down imperiously at her. “I have a...proposal for you, Lady Lavellan, one which should suit us both well, as loathe as I am to admit it.”

“If you are loathe to say this, then why speak to me at all?” She saw the way his face twisted. Beside her, Leliana’s mouth twitched as though she was stifling a laugh.

“Be silent and let me speak,” he said, and Lavellan clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. She felt a rapid, angry beating of her heart within her chest. The _nerve_ of him! “I am, as you well know, a lord of the house of Dumat. You will not find someone more highly regarded than I. I am what this pitiful world needs, and you would do well to see that.”

She raised her eyebrows, looking at him as though what he said was nonsensical. “Is there a _point_ to all of this?”

“There _is_. You are far my lesser, though it seems as though Orlais and Ferelden have deemed you worthy. Despite your inferior birth and your unpleasant disposition, I find myself in the position where I must acknowledge that you are, in all other ways, my match.”

There had been an unpleasant feeling growing in her stomach as he spoke; his final words made her eyes go wide as she realized what it was he meant to say. She felt very much as though she had just swallowed something exceedingly unpleasant.

In her seat, Leliana’s eyes had gone first very wide, then narrowed. Her eyebrows were doing very dangerous things to her expression.

“Please, do not go on,” she said, but Lord Corypheus was truly not one to listen to such things.

“Lady Lavellan, I ask that you be my wife,” he said, and Lavellan went entirely still.

There were many things which she felt would have been appropriate to do in that moment. She felt quite ill at the very thought of marrying this man, and so vomiting upon his shoes would not have been entirely without precedent. Had she less by way of manners, she might have struck him, or at the very least spat in his face. She felt as though her stomach had plummeted, and she felt quite faint with anger.

However, the feeling that won over all the others was, strangely enough, _laughter._

“That is...that is, perhaps, the _funniest_ of things that I have heard it quite some time!” she said, trying to stifle the laughter that bubbled up her throat. “I - I _applaud_ you upon your nerve! Truly, you are a _master_ of comedy to come into my home and insult me _so_ thoroughly - and to end the joke with a proposal of marriage!”

His face was beginning to go quite purple again. She placed her hand over her mouth, trying to turn her laughter into a cough.

“Really, did you expect that to work? It was...well. I do think you could have done better. If you expect the whole world to stop and bow at your feet, you will have to be a _little_ better at speeches! Next time, perhaps, you should compliment me rather than insult me. You could compose a love ballad about my eyes! _That_ might raise your proposal above the others that I have had.”

Really, she was fairly certain he was about to spontaneously combust.

“Perhaps,” Leliana suggested, her teacup now empty but still held in her hand, “you should put the _poor_ man out of his misery by giving him an answer?”

“An _astounding_ idea!” Lavellan said, and she looked back to Lord Corypheus. “Since you have come all this way, I assume that you are quite serious in this matter, even if you _did_ quite literally insult me while proposing.”

“I do not _joke_ in such matters,” he all but growled. “I will not take no for an answer.”

To her side, Leliana looked quite about ready to throw the tea cup at his head. Lavellan wondered if that was included in her list of ways to make a death look like an accident.

“Then I won’t give you a no,” she said, and he looked, for the first time, quite startled. “I will not, however, say _yes_. You might think yourself grand and special, Lord Corypheus, but yours is not the first proposal I have had, nor will it be the last, I think. So I will tell you what I have told all the others: I will provide no one an answer until the ball held at Halamshiral at the end of this season.”

“You -”

“I will give _no_ answer until then,” she said, and now the laughter was gone from her voice and she sat there and glared at him quite seriously. “And now, should you _truly_ want me to consider your offer, you will leave my house and not bother me until then.”

For a moment, it looked as though he was about to argue. Leliana’s arm tensed, as though she were truly about to throw her teacup. But then Lord Corypheus gave a curt bow and pivoted smoothly on his heel. He strode from the room with nary a goodbye to be uttered.

“Well,” said Lavellan, releasing a long breath and slumping back into her chair. “ _That_ was not what I was expecting today. Do you think my laughter insulted him _too_ much?”

“I think,” said Leliana, finally setting down her teacup, “that you should seriously consider letting me kill him.”

***

Several days later, Lavellan found herself in the heart of Haven. It was not so easy to walk unbothered as before; her presence carried a different sort of weight now, and she seemed to draw as many stares and whispers as she had in her first days in the town.

She was, of course, quite thankful to find that Lord Corypheus had made himself scarce. His proposal had jarred her, despite her outward expression of amusement towards it, and she was quite glad that he was nowhere to be found. She had no intention of marrying him, and she knew that for now she had simply put off another confrontation. And while she still did not particularly want to marry Gaspard, he seemed an infinitely better option than Corypheus.

“That’s a rough choice, boss,” Captain Bull said as they sat together outside upon a bench in the town square. He was only shortly returned to Haven, having been out in the Western Approach until recently. There had been some trouble while several more sets of dragon bones had been unearthed, and he had already regaled her with tales of several skirmishes with strange creatures upon the edge of the sand wastes. “Do you have to choose one or the other? Why not just say no to the whole thing?”

Lavellan sighed, for she had thought about this more than once in the weeks since the first proposal. “I suppose I could. But the issue would only be brought up again later. This is what nobility does, right? Marry for alliances and political reasons, rather than love?”

“Screw the nobility and do what you want,” Bull said, which elicited a laugh from Lavellan. “Honestly, boss. Tell them all to screw themselves.”

“I wish I could. But everyone’s waiting for me to fail, you know. A dalish woman, ruling the Dales? _No one_ is happy about that, and I have to tiptoe around everything to make sure…” She let her voice trail off, thinking of the old papers and deeds to land that were still hidden away. “I have plans, but everything and everyone make them impossible to do. I just wish…that things were simpler.” She thought, briefly, of Mr. Solas. Of Lord Fen’harel.

She wished, now, that she had asked him questions when she had the chance. She wished she could take that letter and demand that he tell her if he meant it all.

If everything were out in the open between them, then perhaps...maybe…

“Oh, hello there your Grace! And Captain Bull! You’re back in Haven?” Miss Harding came upon them then. She had a wrapped bolt of fabric under one arm; it looked as though she was just returning to her family’s shop. “Both of you! I mean, I’d _heard_ you were back, and that dreadful business with Lord Corypheus! _Everyone’s_ been talking about it!”

Lavellan resisted the urge to bury her head in her hands. No wonder she was getting odd glances!

“Everyone thinks he’s terrible and that you’d be well within your rights to stab him,” she declared, then went quite pink. “I mean, that’s what _I_ think. I don’t think anyone else mentioned that you should stab him.”

“You should stab him,” Bull said. “I like how you think, Miss Harding.” Miss Harding beamed at him.

“Well, I should probably return to the shop. You know how it is! I - oh. _Oh_. Hello, Mr. Aclassi! I should, ah -”

“Hey, Krem,” said Bull, as the man approached them. He looked somewhat - well, _nervous_ , and Lavellan wondered why.

He gave a small wave. “Hey, Chief. Lady Lavellan. And, ah. Miss Harding.” He suddenly and inexplicably went rather red. “Could I - could I have a moment?”

“With me? Aw, Krem. You know I always have time for you.” Bull had a large grin upon his face, and Krem shot him a look of annoyance.

“With _Miss Harding_. I, er. Could I have a word?”

“Of course,” said Miss Harding. She glanced to Lavellan and Captain Bull. “If you’ll - excuse us -”

Now they only went a little distance off, close enough to still be in sight but too far to hear easily. Lavellan leaned forward curiously. “Are they…?”

Bull leaned back against the back of the bench, one great arm slung carelessly over the side. “Do you know how _many_ letters they’ve been exchanging? If they’re not, the Chargers are going to give him shit about it _forever_.”

Whatever Krem was saying, Miss Harding had gone very, _very_ pink.

“Oh _my_ ,” said Lavellan, and she glanced at Bull. “You know, I was _wondering_. I didn’t want to pry or meddle, of course, but I _wondered_.”

For a moment, though they could not hear what was said, Krem looked quite worried. There was a moment where they both seemed quite frozen, and then Miss Harding gave a small little hop forward and took his hands.

“Of _course!_ ” she said, loud enough for them to hear her, and Krem broke out with such a smile that it was nearly blinding. And then, heedless of the fact that they were both in the very center of town and there were people about, he kissed her.

He had to stoop, for Krem was very tall and Miss Harding was very short, and it was an awkward, clumsy thing, their kiss. But then Miss Harding lept or Krem pulled or they both did each at once, and Harding was lifted up off her feet. There was, for a moment, the sense that perhaps he might accidentally drop her, or that she had knocked him off balance, but Harding wrapped her arms around Krem’s neck and Krem wrapped his arms around her body and they stood like that in the streets and kissed.

It was entirely improper, to be kissing in such a public place, and get it was obvious that, in that moment, neither of them cared. When their kiss broke, Krem still held her up off the ground, and he was smiling in such genuine happiness that it nearly hurt to look at him; in his arms, Miss Harding laughed and smiled as well, her hands upon his jaw, her thumbs upon his cheekbones. She kissed him again.

“You utterly daft man,” Miss Harding said, and she seemed to practically beam with happiness. “The answer was only ever going to be _yes_.”

It was all very incredibly sweet; Lavellan felt a smile break out upon her face at seeing her two friends so happy. Beside her, Bull laughed.

“Good on them,” he said. “If they’d kept at the letter writing and sighing for too much longer, I was going to have to give someone a swift boot in the ass.”

***

It was late, and Lavellan was weary. Tired from a day out, but she could not sleep. Though she lay in her large bed and closed her eyes, she continued to toss and turn, never able to get comfortable for more than a few minutes.

Her mind raced, and that, she knew, was what kept her awake. Thoughts ran through her mind, compounding upon one another, keeping her from slipping into rest.

The ball at Halamshiral was only weeks away, racing forward with each day, with each passing hour. It loomed as though a landmark before her, and she knew that it was then that she would need to settle certain matters.

She thought of Gaspard’s proposal, and of Corypheus’. The latter, of course, was right out. She would sooner marry - _that_ was a thought she could not finish, for she could not think of anyone despicable enough in her eyes to be used in that comparison. The Envy demon, perhaps. She’d sooner marry an envy demon than Corypheus.

Gaspard, she knew, was the logical choice, if she had to marry at all. Provided that theirs was an equal partnership, their alliance _would_ create a great force in the south. Apart from that, he had been rather amiable towards her, and he was not bad to look at. Still, she did not _trust_ him. There was a part of her that wondered if he was had just as horrid goals in mind as Corypheus, just in a more desirable package.

She thought, too, of the documents secreted away where only she could access them, waiting for the right time to be used. She knew, without a doubt, that if she were bound to either Gaspard or Corypheus, her plots and machinations would be all the harder to bring to fruition. After all, what orlesian or tevinter noble would approve of restoring the lands of the Dales back to the dalish families that had once ruled them?

Two options, and neither that she liked much at all.

She wished that things were simpler. That, for instance, she was still with her clan. Where there was no matter of high society politics, and if she’d wished to marry a shabby artist…

If only that’s who he’d really been.

And just like that, her thoughts went back to the letter he had written, tucked away in her desk. She thought, too, of how she’d run from him in the Arbor Wilds, of what she’d said to him at the end.

She rolled over so that she lay upon her back, her arms spread out over the mattress, staring up at the draping canopy of the bed. Oh, but her thoughts were in such a jumble! There was a part of her that wished her feelings for him had dimmed in his absence; she wished, dearly, that when she had seen him again she had felt nothing more than the simple shock of unexpectedly seeing a friend after being parted from them. She wished, even more, that the revelation that he had lied about his identity to her for so long had wiped away all remaining emotion. That it was simply gone from her heart and her mind, and would never torment her again.

She wondered how much of the person he’d shown her over their acquaintance was real. How much she had actually known him, the true him. Because there was a piece of her, a small, glowing ember in her chest, that thought that, _maybe_ , he had truly shown her part of himself.

That he had actually cared for her.

And so her thoughts turned to the last of the words he had written in his letter, that she could not erase from her mind. For they caught and tugged at every last bit of affection she still held for him, every drop of hope that lingered within her bones.

_You were, and are, the beating of my heart, and try as I might you have become an irreplaceable part of me._

She shut her eyes once more, brought her hands to her chest. Her fingertips rested upon her breast, above her heart. It fluttered there, beating softly, a drumming with her chest.

_You had become everything._

What was it that sat in her heart, then? Did she love him? _Could_ she love him, when she did not know if she knew him at all?

Unbidden, something Wisdom had told her rose to the forefront of her mind. _You should be wary of wolves in packs, Lady Lavellan, though a lone wolf will do you no harm._

But he _had_.

There were simply too many things to consider. Too many variables. There he was, an ancient lord who somehow still survived. A piece of old magic, she thought. Like the demons. Like the places where the veil ran thin. Like _Wisdom_ , whom he had named an old friend.

She wondered how long he had walked the world as it changed; or had he slept, like stories said the elvhen of old could do?

Did it matter who he was, what he had done so very long ago, when he had admitted to setting Lord Corypheus upon her _now?_ Did it matter that he had grown to _love_ her, as she had grown to love him?

_Did_ she still love him?

In the darkness, she pushed herself up from her bed. She pulled on her dressing gown and she left her room, padding barefoot down the hall and the stairs to her study. A candle she lit with only the touch of a fingers, and then she unlocked the drawer that hid his letter. She lay it upon the desk, and then she pulled forth paper and quill and ink. And she wrote.

***

_Envy could not consume my heart, and Pride could lay no claim. Fear tried to take all, but what hope did it have to sway me? I know, as I have always known, who I am. What I am, and what is in my heart._

_I loved you once, when you stood in the rain before me and told me whose blood it was that ran through my veins. You have known who I was from the start; I have deceived you in nothing. And though you deceived me in much, I am still uncertain if my heart was misplaced._

_You say I am the beating of your heart; as are you mine, regardless of reason or sense._

_I will be in attendance at the ball in Halamshiral at the season’s end. Perhaps, if you are there, we shall find some common ground between us still._

  
  


 


	31. In which there is a wolf and there is a halla, and they are equal or nothing at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set the mood with some (a bit later than 1820's) music in [stage](https://youtu.be/8PxEvj_tvGQ) or [movie](https://youtu.be/8Bn4BAlp8NQ) variants!

As the eve of the ball approached, Lavellan found herself growing more and more nervous. It was a reasonable reaction, she decided, to be in a state of panic over the enormity of the situation. After all, she had promised responses to not one, but _two_ suitors.

She had, of course, no intention of accepting Lord Corypheus’ proposal, but she also suspected that he would not give up his suit unless she accepted the hand of another. His designs upon the south had not changed, and until he found a better option, marrying her was likely his best way to secure what he wanted.

Grand Duke Gaspard, of course, was an option, though one she truly did not want to entertain. Though the man seemed outwardly charming, she knew now enough of his politics and opinions to reason that he was not a good match for her. Better than Lord Corypheus, surely, but that truly meant very little. The two shared an interest only in her land and title, something which Marquis Briala had confirmed only days before.

And then there was the small bit of hope that she held, that her letter had reached its intended recipient. She had no way of knowing if it had.

Now, the ball itself was to be a masquerade, something which Lavellan had never before attended. She had not, in fact, attended any court events of this magnitude. In many ways, this was an official introduction to society for her as Grand Duchess of Dales.

“You must wear something befitting of your station,” Lady Josephine had advised. “Something truly elegant.”

“You will want to make a statement, darling,” Madame Vivienne had declared when she was asked. “Something daring. Though do not go without a mask. _That_ is the one rule that you cannot bend.”

She kept this all in mind when deciding upon what to wear, and in the weeks before the ball went through all the proper routes to procure the exact sort of dress and mask she desired.

Now she stayed in Halamshiral with Madame Vivienne prior to the ball, in an elegant suite of one of the Chateaus. Or rather, Madame Vivienne stayed with her, for the Chateau was one that had belonged to the late Duchess Divine and so had been made ready for Lavellan’s arrival.

It took her quite some time to prepare, that night of the ball. She could not keep her heart from quickening its tempo as she was laced into her corset, as her hair was swept up and threaded with pearls, as her dress was artfully draped onto her. This was, she knew, to be a turning point. There would be something decided tonight, one way or another. With any luck, after tonight, Lord Corypheus would no longer be a thorn in her side.

When she came down the stairwell, she found Vivienne already dressed and set to depart. The woman looked at her from behind an ornate silver mask which stretched up to become two curved bull’s horns above her head.

“A bold choice,” she said as she looked Lavellan over. “You shall certainly make an impression in that, my dear.”

“That is rather the point, isn’t it?” Lavellan smiled brightly behind her mask and saw how Vivienne laughed at her words.

“Precisely so. Now, we should depart, or else we will be later than is considered fashionable.”

***

The palace in Halamshiral was alight with color. Every window seemed to stream light, and the front courtyard was filled with those nobles who were newly arrived, carriages leaving the decadently dressed upon the front step, the horses to be taken away and cared for while their owners spent the night drinking and dancing before those of highest standing in Orlais.

As their carriage came to a stop and the footman opened the door, Lavellan checked to make certain her mask was secured neatly upon her face, and that there was not a necklace or bit of clothing out of place. She felt a rush of anxiety well up, but as she stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the palace somehow that all fell away.

She was the Grand Duchess of Dales. She had every right to be here as anyone else. She had stared down Envy and Pride and Fear and great and terrible things that lingered at the edges of the world. The courts of Orlais suddenly seemed like cheap, gaudy toys compared to all the wondrous things she had seen.

As she stepped down onto the cobblestones, Vivienne at her side, she felt as though she might be able to counter anything the night threw at her.

“Ah, look,” said Vivienne. “The Grand Duke comes to greet you.”

“Does he, now,” Lavellan murmured, and she came to a stop before Gaspard. “Your highness. Delighted to see you.”

He bowed slightly towards her, and she returned the gesture. “Grand Duchess,” he said, and she saw him smile behind his ornate golden mask. “And Grand Enchanter Vivienne. I am equally delighted to see you. Might I have a word, my lady, before we enter the ball?”

“Of course. Vivienne, if you will excuse us?”

Vivienne’s smile was carefully composed, but there was an edge to the expression, even though she could only see a portion of her features that were not hidden. _Tread carefully_ , that expression said, or so Lavellan chose to believe.

Oh, she would tread _very_ carefully this night,

As Vivienne left, Gaspard turned to Lavellan. As he opened his mouth to speak, she raised her hand.

“Would I be wrong in assuming that you are about to ask if I have an answer for you?” she said, and Gaspard laughed.

“You seem to be able to read me easily, my lady.”

Lavellan tipped her head. “Alas, I do not have that good fortune with all. However, you will simply have to wait for your answer. After all, is it not traditional to leave all great announcements until much later in the evening?”

“So it is. I will admit, I was looking forward to walking into the ball a united front against all others,” he said, and she, once again, wondered at what game _he_ was playing at. But then, all of Orlais was full of games, and she was playing her own this night.

“I did not say that I would not enter the ball with you, Gaspard,” she said, and she set her hand upon his arm. “Did you not wish to attend this event together?”

“I did,” he said, and he smiled and took her by the arm and together they walked into the ballroom.

She walked with her back straight and her head held high, an equal to the Grand Duke walking beside her. She heard whispers as they entered, mostly unintelligible and easily dismissed. Some where of the exact sort she expected - the judging comments, the disbelief, those who remarked upon the beauty of her mask and dress until they noticed her ears. Those who did not seem to realize who she was, thinking her little more than someone who clung to Gaspard’s arm in hopes of higher stations.

It showed how little they knew about her.

She strode through the hall that lead to the ballroom floor, a train of fabric trailing behind her, her fingers lightly settled upon the crook of Gaspard’s arm. They paused there, and he glanced at her.

“Are you ready to make the tongues of Orlais gossip for the entirety of the next season?” he asked her, and she laughed. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm in her chest - anxiety or fear or, perhaps, anticipation.

“Of course,” she said, and the doors were thrown open and then it was there before the elite of Orlais.

  
  


“Her Grace, the Grand Duchess of Dales, and His Royal Highness, the Grand Duke of Verchiel,” she heard announced. She held herself tall and straight and walked elegantly forward, her eyes upon the empress who stood at the other end of the floor.

She ought to have felt heavy, the mask and headpiece ought to have weighed her down, but instead she felt light. Light, as though she were walking upon air. She could still hear whispers, certainly, but she did not care. Around her, she could make out no faces, only the glittering of masks and shimmering fabrics.

She wondered what they saw, what she looked like to them as she walked. Did she look like some little dalish woman pretending to be one of them? Certainly some of them thought so, but there were few here who’s opinions truly mattered to her. Still, she knew what she looked to them, dressed all in white silk that gathered at her shoulders and caught beneath her breast before falling in soft folds to the ground. Golden embroidery covered her skirts, twisting vines and trees. Her hair was elegantly twisted up, threaded with gold and pearls, and yet she knew what drew the most attention, for she had picked her mask specifically to make the strongest statement she could. For upon her face rested a delicate mask of white and gold, which folded back over her cheeks and rose up high above her head into a twisted crown of antlers.

The mask of a halla, lest anyone forget who her people were. If any of them - Gaspard or Corypheus or the Empress who stood before her - thought that she was not still dalish, then they would be _quite_ in for a surprise.

“We greet you, cousin,” said the Empress as they crossed the floor and came to a stop before her. They bowed deeply to her, no longer arm in arm. “And to you, Grand Duchess of Dales, we say that we are glad of your presence.”

“As I am glad to be before such majesty, your Highness,” she said, her head tipped down. The weight of her mask tried to pull her head down further, but she smoothly recovered and rose from her curtsey.

The Empress, for all that she was kin to Gaspard, seemed quite removed from his blunt features. She was pale and delicate, dressed in a dress of the deepest blue, a sunburst upon her back and a face of porcelain painted with gold leaf. Lavellan could see nothing of her true face, hidden beneath the mask.

The introductions were brief, and when they were done Lavellan allowed a sigh of relief to escape her lips.

“Do not be so quick to relax,” said Gaspard, who still stood beside her. “There will be many more introductions for you before the night is done.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” she said, and she let him whisk her away out to meet the court.

***

There were many observations that Lavellan made that night, for she kept a careful eye upon those around her. She saw who was liked, heard comments on who was disliked. She quickly learned which shoes were in fashion, and which dresses were considered tawdry.

In it all, she kept an eye out for several figures of note.

Lord Corypheus she spotted easily; how he had obtained an invitation she would never know, and felt rather certain she didn’t _want_ to know. He stood taller than anyone else, clad in black and red, and he walked with the sort of self importance that would have had one believing that _he_ was the Emperor of Orlais. He seemed to be wearing some sort of monstrous, dragonesque mask that curved down over most of his face and seemed to jut out oddly from the right side. The scales glittered red when the light from the chandeliers hit it properly.

She managed to avoid him for the first few dances, but as the night wore on she saw him approaching her from across the floor. Had she more warning, she might have been able to find a quick escape, but he caught her before she was able to.

“Lavellan,” he said, with all the deference he normally gave towards her which was, to say, none at all. One of the other ladies near them gasped. “I would have a dance.”

Lavellan smiled and fluttered her fan delicately before her. “Oh, my Lord Corypheus, I _would_ , but I fear I am currently engaged for this and...the next _several_ dances. Really, if you had wished to dance with me, you might have asked sooner in the night. But I am certain you will find a suitable partner. After all, a man of _your_ standing must have no trouble at all arranging dances with those of your own station.”

She heard a small titter of laughter from nearby, and before Lord Corypheus could respond she swept past him to where Gaspard stood. “A dance, your highness?” she asked him with a smile. His mask hid any subtleties of his reaction, but he held out his hand to her and she places her delicately upon it.

“I do not dance as often as I used to,” he said. “But for you?” And they walked out upon the dance floor to a flurry of whispers and a rather irate looking Corypheus.

Now the dance which had been called was a quadrille; Lavellan took her place beside Gaspard, arrayed before three other couples. Her hand still in Gaspard’s, they advanced and retreated several times, before her steps took her across to the far couple. A turn, a pause, and then she returned once more across the floor.

One particular of this variant of the dance that she found she greatly enjoyed was how often she had a moment to herself, apart from Gaspard or simply to stand and wait for her next dancing step. In these moments, she found herself scanning those around the dance floor, looking, _searching_.

She had, of course, little hope that her letter had been received. Still, she _hoped_.

If only they were to see each other once more, she thought that, _perhaps_ , things would be all right.

In any case, she did not plan to flee from anyone tonight.

Her steps brought her to Gaspard’s side again; they took a turn. The leather of his gloves was soft beneath her fingers.

“You seem distracted tonight,” he remarked, and she turned her attention to him.

“Oh!” She laughed. “I am simply dazzled by the palace.”

“My cousin spares no expense when it comes to such things,” he said as they retreated once more to their starting position upon the dance floor.

The next set of dancers began their turn upon the floor; Lavellan let her eyes slide from them to those watching. For a moment, something that glittered red caught her eye, but it was gone before she could determine what it was.

“Tell me, your highness,” she said as delicately as she was able. “If we were to ally together, would I be your equal?”

His spine stiffened, just the slightest, but otherwise she could tell not real reaction, his face shielded by metal. A face upon a face, so that truth could never been seen.

“Of course,” he said, and she saw a smile where the mask did not cover his expression. “Though your parentage may be lacking, you _are_ the Grand Duchess of Dales. Our alliance, however, would make you Duchess of Verchiel as well.”

“Duchess of Verchiel,” she said, and she pressed her lips together. And he would be Duke of Dales.

He was watching her carefully. She had a brief, terrible thought then, wondering how long she would live once he shared rule of the Dales?

“Does the sound of Duchess of Verchiel please you?” he asked her. She forced a smile upon her face as they stepped back into the dance and he caught her in a sweeping turn.

“Gaspard,” she said, and saw a muscle jump in his jaw. “I have said I will give no answer until later in the night. Surely you know that there is much for me to consider; after all, with multiple suitors, how can I make such a decision easily?”

His hand tightened upon hers. It seemed that he had not considered this. But the last steps of the dance broke them apart and she curtseyed to him.

“Your Highness,” she said, as though she had not just said anything shocking in the least. “Thank you for the dance.”

And then she left him upon the dance floor.

She continued to look at those at the party, trying to determine if he _was_ there. She saw a man dressed as a horse, and a woman who wore a butterfly mask made of bright feathers. There was another man who seemed to be attempting to be a lion, and yet another who must have been a Ferelden noble, given the dog motif he wore. For a moment, she saw a wolf out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned she saw that the man who wore the mask was too tall, his shoulders too broad.

She could not fight the disappointment that pooled within her stomach.

There were several parts of her that regretted the letter, for very different reasons. There was, of course, the part that was still uncertain if she _could_ forgive him. Uncertain that she would be able to speak to him civilly, without slinging accusations. But there was the other part, the glowing feeling that settled in her heart, and that part regretted the letter because what if he _hadn’t_ received it? Or what if he had, but chose not to come? She remembered her last spoken words to him; they had been constructed to cut, and perhaps they had cut too deep for him to care to see her again.

But then she happened to glance out across the ballroom floor and there, upon the far wall, she saw someone. She felt her heartbeat quicken, and this time she _knew_ that it was from the dual places of apprehension and anticipation. Though she was too far to make out his features clearly, she _knew_.

It was highly unlikely that any Orlesian would wear the mask of a wolf with six red eyes.

Oh, but _she_ knew the iconography. The mask covered most of his face, along with with his ears, but she knew. Just as no Orlesian would know the significance of the golden halla horns made of twisted metal that she wore, none would know that someone dressed as the Dread Wolf walked among them.

But _she_ knew.

For a moment, she looked out across the ballroom floor and she saw him look back. Like in the forest, like in all those strange moments of the mystic and magic, the color around seemed to dim while he grew brighter. It was as though the eyes of the mask were alive, bright as coals. The black of the metal and of his coat seemed far darker than anything she had seen before.

Lavellan caught the Dread Wolf’s eye and she smiled. And then she turned away.

 _Not yet_.

“Your Grace, would you care to dance?” said a man with blond hair. She took his hand. She danced.

Oh, but each step she danced, she still knew where he was. She had caught his scent now, and this was her game tonight, her hunt. After all, what was an old lone wolf when pitted against a great hart in her prime?

She saw him, upon the edge of the floor, as she danced with a baron, and then a baroness. Each time he seemed to draw near, she would smile before finding herself upon the arm of someone else.

Her heart seemed to beat in time with the music. She felt so very alive.

As the third dance came to an end, she found that she was quite parched and in need of a brief respite. She made her way from the dance floor up the stairs; there was a table of refreshments, and standing near it she saw someone who looked quite familiar. It took her a moment, for most of her face was obscured by what looked to be some sort of sea bird. But then she blinked and it became _quite_ apparent who was standing before her.

“My goodness, Hawke,” she said as she swept a glass of punch from the table. “What _are_ you supposed to be?”

Behind her mask, Lady Hawke rolled her eyes. “An _albatross_. It’s is a joke, I think. I was talked into it! Varric said a hawk would be too obvious, and my dear Isabela insisted that I be a sea bird.”

“I didn’t know you were to be here at all,” said Lavellan, sipping delicately at her drink. “Does being Champion of Kirkwall really afford you an invitation?”

Rather than looking insulted, Lady Hawke threw her head back and laughed. “Oh! _Well!_ It’s a very interesting story why I’m here. You see, I had a friend of the Orlesian noble sort who _wanted_ to attend, but she came down with a terrible stomach ailment just the other day - I _did_ warn her about qunari cheeses and how they sometimes go wrong during shipping, but she just didn’t listen! So she gave me her invitation, and that reminds me that you should _probably_ call me Lady Fifi de Launcet tonight, since _technically_ Lady Hawke of Kirkwall isn’t supposed to be in attendance.”

“Lady Fifi?”

“A woman who, in another world, might have been my sister,” Lady Hawke said, and Lavellan found she really didn’t need to know the specifics. “By the way, did you know you are the talk of the entire ball?”

Lavellan sipped her punch as she looked around furtively. She saw no trace of a familiar face near her, or a familiar build of body, and inwardly cursed that she had lost sight of him. “Only good things, I hope,” she said, though she knew it more likely to be the opposite.

“ _Actually_ ,” said Hawke, plucking a stray feather from her bodice, “they’re saying you will make an announcement tonight. A _marriage_ announcement.”

Lavellan’s eyes went wide. “I never said I would announce anything publically!” she hissed beneath her breath as another partygoer came too close. “Although…” She sighed heavily, for she supposed she technically _had_. “Good lord, are they saying anything else? Don’t eat the shrimp, Lady Hawke, we’re too far in-land for it to be safe.”

Lady Hawke delicately set the shrimp back down upon the food platter and wiped her fingers delicately upon the edge of the tablecloth. “Well, they’re saying that you are choosing between Grand Duke Gaspard and Lord Corypheus. Everyone assumes you will be marrying Gaspard; after all, _who_ would marry that horrible man from Tevinter?”

“Oh, _no_.” Lavellan downed the last of her punch and set the glass down a bit too harshly. “This is not at _all_ what I wanted. I mean, I _did_ tell both of _them_ that I’d make my decision at the ball, but I didn’t say that I would _announce_ anything to the entire court - I suppose I’ll just have to make this work to my advantage!” Her mind began to work, for there _had_ to be a way to make this turn out in her favor. She _had_ to make an announcement tonight, then, and she supposed the courts would not sit quietly if her announcement turned out to be _I will marry no one and die an old spinster and the Dales will go to no one you would agree upon_.

“If you want me to do anything, just let me know! I’m very good with doing things!” Lady Hawke said, and Lavellan smiled at her.

“You are a very dear friend, Hawke,” she told her, and Lady Hawke looked very pleased by that indeed, though the beak of her albatross mask hid most of her expression. And then Lavellan turned back out to face the ballroom and she saw something she did not at all like. “Would _anything_ constitute distracting Lord Corypheus for a short while?” she asked, for the disagreeable man was once more heading towards her.

“Hm. I must like you very much indeed, Lady Lavellan,” said Lady Hawke, and she brushed her hands off upon her skirts, pasting a smile that seemed more genuine than it truly was upon her face. She strode off to intercept him before he could reach Lavellan. “Oh, what a wonderful surprise! _Lord Corypheus of Tevinter?_ Why, I’ve been _so_ wanting to meet you again!”

“Who _are_ you?” Lavellan heard Corypheus say. Lady Hawke laughed.

“Why don’t we dance a time, and if you can guess my name correctly... _well!_ If you guess correctly, then you’ll undoubtedly know who I am!”

There were many things that Lavellan would never forget about that night. One of them that she would always hold precious to her was the flabbergasted look upon Lord Corypheus’ face as Lady Hawke dragged him out upon the dance floor.

While she would have delighted in watching the magister trip over himself dancing, she focused instead upon searching once more. And though she had lost sight of him before, it took only a little to find him - a glint of his mask, unmistakable even from a slight distance.

She knew that she was not easy to miss; he knew she was approaching as soon as she began to walk towards him. So much for subtlety, but she supposed it was time. Lord Corypheus would only be distracted for so long, and Gaspard would soon demand an answer.

And so Lavellan wound her way through the guests to where she saw the stylized mask of a many-eyed wolf. At first, it seemed as though he did not see her, but as she came close he turned and looked straight at her, and she knew without a doubt that it was him. She saw the rough curve of his jaw, the cleft of his chin. His eyes, one more set upon the mask, clear and light and looking directly at her.

“Lord Fen’harel,” she said as she came to stand before him, inclining her head towards him. “I am, of course, delighted to see that you here.”

“Grand Duchess of Dales,” he said, and he inclined his head as well. “Am I to understand that you received my letter?”

“I did,” she said, and she found that, now that they stood before one another, her heart began to race once more. She felt that most peculiar ache in her chest; she felt pain and she felt hope and she did, in fact, still feel love. “We have so much to talk about, do we not? Though,” and now she laughed, “it seems to me now that a ball is not the best place for all the things we have to discuss.”

“Where better? Where else will you find such passion and politics, so many lies and betrayals?” He looked at her, and she wished she could see fully his face. Yet she was equally glad that most of hers was obscured.

“Where better indeed,” she said softly, and for a moment she simply looked at him. At the reality of him, standing there before her, when she did not wish to flee out of confusion and anger. At the well structured coat cut of dark fabric, for once not several years out of fashion. At the cravat wound around his throat. At the snout of the wolf mask which cut low over his nose. “I had not thought you would be so...blatant with your mask,” she admitted, for it did strike her as rather obvious, and he had otherwise always seemed so very reserved.

“It is only so to your eyes,” he said. “No one else here knows who I am. I should rather remark upon what you wear.”

Lavellan pressed her lips together. She wondered what he thought, of the mask, of the antlers. Of her, standing there among the bright silks and decadently dressed of Orlais. “And what does one wolf think, when he sees a halla standing before him?” she asked. She saw his head tilt up slightly, his eyes narrow. “Not what an Orlesian would think, surely. I am not prey, to be chased across the plains.”

“No,” he said, slowly, “you are not. _That_ is something you never have been.” And then he held out his hand to her. “Will you not dance with me, Grand Duchess? Before the hour has grown too late?”

She hesitated for only a moment, a breath caught in her throat. She looked at his hand, briefly touched hers to her bottom lip, and then she reached out and took his. It seemed as though a thrill ran through her as their fingers touched.

Had he always been thus? Bright, like the demons and the spirits as they bled into the world? Shining and vibrant, as Morrigan and her son and Lady Flemeth upon her ancient throne in the heart of the forest?

 _Yes_ , she thought, but she simply had not always seen it.

“Dance with me, Lord Fen’harel,” she said, and she tugged upon their joined hands and pulled him out upon the floor.

Now there were few upon the dance floor, and it seemed that they cleared away as she walked out upon it. Her, a grand duchess of Orlais. She heard whispers once more - who was the man she danced with? No one recognized him, and with his ears hidden behind his mask she knew that they would never guess at his identity.

She had not guessed at his identity until had been revealed to her; no one else would ever know unless they were told.

She nearly laughed as the music began. “A waltz,” she said, and she set her hand upon his shoulder. “Fitting, isn’t it?”

“It was the first that we danced together,” he said, and he placed his hand upon her waist. “Is this to be our last, then?”

There was something in how he said it, a softness to his eyes. A sadness perhaps.

“That depends,” she said, and she felt his fingers tighten upon hers. “It depends very much upon the quality of _this_ dance, doesn’t it?”

And then they stepped in time with the music; she knew better, now, the steps of this dance. His hand upon her waist, hers upon his arm, they glided along. The skirts of her dress twirled about her as they cut a circle upon the floor, and all around them turned to nothing but the murmur of sound and light.

He was as he had always been, only more so. There was something different to him now, something strong and gleaming and old. Or perhaps now that she knew who he was, all the bits of him that had not quite made sense before did so now with startling clarity. And still, her heart drummed in her chest and leaped in her throat, and in that moment, dancing there with him, she wanted so many things, more than she ever had before.

How bright had he always been? How bright and gleaming was she? Did he look at her and see someone strong, who could stand shoulder to shoulder with things out of memory and magic, or did he see some foolish creature who walked back into the open jaws of a wolf?

She knew which she was. But did he?

“Why did you come tonight, Lord Fen’harel?” she asked him, as he spun her wide and pulled her close again. “Do you enjoy a party so greatly that you could not stay away?”

“I had forgotten the rush of politics and intrigue in such a setting,” he said, and she saw the way his mouth tugged into a slight smile. The metal of his mask glinted; six eyes of the wolf reflecting the light of the chandeliers above. “Perhaps I simply came for a dance. Perhaps,” and his smile grew softer, “I came because I received a letter.”

“So you received it, then.” The music swelled and he spun her; once again, he lead the dance. “I had hoped that you might, though I was not certain if it would reach you.”

“I have ways of finding things,” he said. He pressed his hand to her waist; another couple had joined the dance, and another, and he kept them from dancing to near to them.

“Good.” Her heart beat so rapidly within her chest, she thought it might burst. This was, she supposed, the last moment, and once she did this there would be no going back, for better or for worse. “We have so much to talk about, but so little time. You asked me if I had questions before, and I do. I truly do, though you answered many of them with your letter.”

She saw him swallow, saw how his jaw clenched. “I did not wish to deceive you, in the end.”

“You never meant for me to know,” she said, and, again, he did not deny it. “But I found out. In your letter, you said you loved me. But you left. Why?”

She was not angry now, not as she was before. She could ask him these questions without wishing to run, without wishing to claw at him. And he danced with her, so very close, and it seemed he was not running, either.

“Because you deserve better,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Because you deserve better than someone who could give you only lies.”

“Did it ever occur to you that _I_ am the one who decides what I deserve?” The world tilted as he spun her again; she nearly pressed against his chest as she came back to him. “Do you know what I see now, when I look at you?”

He was silent.

“I see a liar, yes. I see someone who mislead me and left me upon my doorstep with a broken heart.” He shut his eyes; it pained him to hear her say this, no matter that it was the truth. “But that is not all. I see someone who befriended spirits and wept at the death of Wisdom. I see someone who Cole misses dearly, who Cole _must_ have seen something good in. I see someone with who I could argue forever with, who sometimes irritates me fiercely, and yet who I find there to be an emptiness there when you are not around.” She pushed against him then as the music continued, and though she still held herself as the follow, it was now her who lead the dance. “And I see someone who is impossible, out of time. Who is not quite of the world as it now is, but remembers a time when things were different. When they built statues of wolves that looked out over the land and stood guard.”

His breath hitched in his chest, she saw his eyes open, the surprise, the shock within them.

“What do you see when you look at me?” she asked him. Around them, other couples danced. Around them, the music continued on.

“I see…” he began, and he faltered. Shut his eyes once more, pressed his lips together. And when he looked at her once more it was with the same look he had given her that night in the rain. He looked at her as though she was rare and beautiful and precious. “I see a woman who has surprised me in all things. Who makes me question those beliefs I have held for a thousand years so easily. Who is compassionate and infuriating, who stood against all that was in her path. Who knew wisdom from pride and did not balk before impossible things. I see a woman who wears the trappings of a halla, and all that entails.”

“And what does that mean?” she asked. “You know me, you know my people. What does it _mean_ that I wear this?”

And he laughed then, shook his head slightly. As though he had already known she would make him explain. “There is nothing so dear to your people as the halla,” he said. “A wolf might guard, but a halla...the halla is your heart. Your strength.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she said, and she could not help but smile. The halla in the forest, golden and shining like a star, a pathfinder for her people.

And now her heart beat faster still, and she wondered if he could tell. She leaned in close as they danced, her lips mere inches from his ear. The horns of her mask clicked against the metal of the mask he wore. They were so close that she could see how his pulse beat beneath his skin.

“I have a proposal for you, Fen’harel,” she said as they spun about the dance floor. She still lead the dance, still pressed her hand to his shoulder to move him where she wished. “You see, I find that I have come into quite a change of fortune. A great inheritance, if you will. A title, which no one like me has held in years.

“But you see,” she continued, feeling his hand upon her waist, feeling the rapid beating of her heart within her chest, “though my position has made it possible so that those who call themselves dalish and elvhen may once more have a homeland, should I desire it, it is a tenuous position that I find myself in. For I find myself beset with suitors who want nothing more than my land, and not a one who is a suitable match. One of whom, I might add, is the very man you unknowingly set upon me with your scheming.”

She felt his fingers curl upon her waist. She did not need to say Corypheus’ name; he knew who she spoke of.

“And what would make a suitable match?” he asked her, his voice quiet. “I am certain you have many qualities in mind.”

“I _do_ ,” she said. He swept her past a couple dressed as a pair of doves. “You see, anyone who I marry must understand my goals. They must know that I will not merely be a puppet or a means to an end. I will not sit idly by while someone else rules in my stead. I would _also_ prefer not to marry someone who might well wish me dead when they have no more need of me.”

His left hand tightened upon hers ever so slight, but his voice remained steady. “Then you must think carefully on which proposal you will accept. There are few here who would not covet what power you now wield. Power such as you have attracts greed; you can only trust yourself.”

“Can I?” She followed as he lifted their joined hands, sweeping her through a turn. Her shoes clicked lightly upon the floor. “Can power never be shared, between two like-minded people?”

“Perhaps,” he said. He pulled her back, his hand at her waist, hers upon his arm. But though she still danced the steps of the follow, she pushed against him. He stepped back, eyes widening slightly. Her steps moved them both around the dance floor.

“There would need to be trust,” she said, and she turned them, her skirt twirling around herself as she did. For a moment, as she came back to him, she was so close she could have kissed him upon the curve of his jaw. “There would need to be _honesty_.”

“A hard trait to come by,” he said. She thought she detected a waver in his voice.

The music swelled, threes and threes beating again and again. His fingers were tense against her waist; she held them close with her arm upon his shoulder.

“Do you think,” she said, their faces only inches apart, “that we could be honest with one another?”

“Do you speak hypothetically?”

“I always speak hypothetically,” she said, and she pressed her hand against his arm, pushing him back and out of the way of another dancing pair. “But I do require an answer. But perhaps my question was too vague. I shall endeavour to be more specific, then. Do you, Lord Fen’Harel, think you could be honest with me? Do you think you could _trust_ me?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw; his throat worked behind his cravat. She felt the tension in his fingers upon her waist.

“I think,” he said slowly, and the way he looked at her was so tentative, his eyes half lidded behind his mask, “that I could trust you more than anyone else in this world.”

“And in that trust,” she said as they continued to weave around the dancefloor, “do you think we might be able to work together? For I hold sway over the southern lands and there is much we could accomplish.”

“You would see the dalish restored their land,” he said, and she tipped her head slightly, the antlers of her mask glittering in the light.

“That, and more. I would see things better for everyone, should I be able to do that. Do not mistake me, we cannot go back to how things were. This world is not the same as it was when you first walked it. _But_. Could we not, together, find a better way?”

He looked at her; she thought he frowned beneath his mask.

“You have such faith in this world,” he said, and she nodded once more in sway with the dance.

“I do. And I would like to have such faith in _you_.”

The music came to its end; he turned her, swept her into a dip. She pressed her hand to his chest, above his heart.

“You know who I am and what I have done,” he said, and he lifted her once more. “ _Why?_ ”

She kept her hand upon his chest; the music for the next dance began, but she did not move from him. “Because I want to believe that you told me truly when you said you showed me something of who you really are. And I believe I would like to see the rest.”

He pulled her upright; her breath was unsteady in her chest.

“Lord Fen’harel of Arlathan,” she said, and her voice did not falter, did not waver, no matter how swiftly her blood ran or how greatly her heart fluttered within her. “If I asked you to marry me, to see if we might be able to make this work, what would your answer me?”

He was silent for so long that she feared what his answer would be. But he looked at her as though she were the most impossible thing in existence.

What a foolish way to look at her, for she was as real as anyone else.

“Is that your question?” he said then, and she could have laughed.

“No.It isn’t.” She did not let go of him, standing there with him, with all the courts of Orlais watching them. She looked up at him and she felt as though her heart took to flight. “My question is this: _will_ you marry me, Lord Fen’harel of Arlathan, and help me to change what is wrong in this world?”

And so they stood there; the music continued on, but they no longer danced. Upon the dance floor, they simply held one another - his right hand upon her waist, his left hand tangled with hers. He took their joined hands and lifted them to his mouth; he pressed his lips against her fingers. And for that moment, as she looked up at him and he looked at her, Lavellan wished, so deeply, that she could lift herself up just the slightest bit upon her toes and press her mouth to his.

“ _Yes_ ,” he said, just loud enough that she could hear him over the sound of the ball, over the music and the courtiers with their judging words, over the rush of her blood and the beating of her heart. “I will.”

“ _Well_ ,” she said, her voice at first barely more than a whisper itself, but grew stronger as she spoke. “I suppose the court is waiting for me to make my announcement. And now I finally have an answer to give.”

 


	32. Epilogue: Or how things may, somehow, be all right

_My dear Lavellan,_

_I hope this letter finds you well! I, of course, am doing delightfully! Kirkwall has never been better (though the sewers still smell and the old church is still a ruin and the foundry caught fire for the third time this year last week), and I find myself content to be home for a time. Varric seems to share my sentiment, though I believe he will be traveling to Haven some time in the coming season. He’s grown attached._

_Speaking of Varric, he sends his well wishes, as well as a complete copy of all the installments of_ Swords & Shields _._ Two _copies, actually, one for Lady Cassandra if you do manage to see her. He knows she reads them. He has specified that_ you _are allowed to burn your copy, if you so see fit, as the story is “utter garbage” and “not fit for anyone's eyes to read.”_

 _We only get so much news from Orlais up here, and your last letter was so long ago! Are you alive? Are you sick? Have you become a dragon? I must know these things! Aside from the newspaper clippings about angry Orlesians who don’t want the dalish reclaiming their land, I have little idea what’s going on! I know you must be busy seeing as you_ are _the Grand Duchess of Dales, but you simply must write me back more quickly this time!_

 _Also, a friend - not me - wants desperately to know about your lord. You know. The bald, somewhat attractive man calling himself Fen’harel._ Lord _Fen’harel. I know he’s your Mr. Solas, of course, that much was obvious, but if you do not give me details on your engagement I will be most put out! I remember how your announcement at the ball caused_ such _an outrage! I was fairly certain that Lord Corypheus might combust in a manner most spontaneous when he heard, and I do think you rather crushed some plan of Grand Duke Gaspard’s. It was utterly delightful, and from all accounts the two of you have stood up to all criticism and obstacle that has been placed in your way. It’s admirable, but you know that I crave more interesting gossip than simply the idle tongues of court!_

 _That, or if you don’t tell me by letter, you simply_ must _invite me to Skyhold once more! Nevermind; expect me before the end of the season! I won’t hear any protest on this!_

_You tell that lord of yours that if he runs off again, I’ll personally track him down and skewer him._

_Your dear friend,_

_Hawke_

***

The laughter from the sitting room was loud and bright; Captan Bull sounded quite delighted at something Dorian had said, and while the mage put on an air of being affronted, the way he leaned into the other man spoke of it only being a front and nothing more.

The room was quite full, with many friends speaking and laughing and enjoying each other’s company. It was, perhaps, somewhat unorthodox for a Grand Duchess to invite such an array of people into her home, but Her Grace the Grand Duchess of Dales was nothing if not unorthodox.

She stood by the window, a snifter of brandy in hand, watching as Lady Josephine played the pianoforte while Leliana sang, a sight which seemed so familiar now, so far had they come from that first party where she saw the same sight. And past them, Lady Cassandra stood conversing politely with Commander Rutherford. Cole sat upon the back of one of the couches, mostly observing but occasionally interjecting into the conversation between Bull and Dorian.

It was, all things considered, something wonderful to behold.

She was quite content to sit apart and simply observe her friends, those who she had come to care deeply for over the past year, though not everyone of of them could be there that night. She thought of Krem and Lace, who had gone to the Western Approach for adventure, and of Felix who was, for now, studying the remains of the dragons uncovered in the desert at the University of Orlas along with Ser Frederic. She thought, too, of Lady Morrigan and her family, of Hawke who was in Kirkwall, of Vivienne and the subtle changes she had begun to make to how the College of Magi was run.

But there was one person she knew was in attendance who was not currently present, and so after a time of watching her friends, she set her glass down and departed the room.

She found him upon the third floor, standing on the balcony that looked out over the garden. The light left in the early evening glinted off the glass of the greenhouse. He stood there, his hands resting upon the rail of the balcony, and for a moment she lingered in the doorway.

It had been several months, and he was still there. He had not left again, had not fled, and as far as she knew he kept no more secrets as great as the ones he had before. Oh, she was certain he had more secrets, things she could not even fathom, but of the things she needed to know she thought him honest.

Though she did not move and she made no sound, he seemed to know that she was there. He pushed against the rail and straightened, turning to look at her over his shoulder.

“Have you been here long?” he asked, and she smiled, stepping out onto the balcony with him.

“Not long at all,” she said, and she came to rest beside him. Her hip against the rail, and she looked out over the grounds of Skyhold, at the mountains silhouetted by the evening light. “I thought I might find you here.”

“It was...too loud,” he said. “I needed a moment’s solace.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. “A moment’s solace?”

“A poor choice of words.” But he dipped his head down and he, too smiled. “I desired quiet to think.”

“If it is quiet you need, then perhaps I should go.” She made as if to leave, but he reached out and touched her hand and she stopped. It was only a touch, simply his fingers against the side of her hand, but it was enough.

“No, please. If you would stay, I would enjoy the company.”

She moved back to lean against the rail. He settled beside her, resting his forearms against the cool stone, and this time there were only inches between them.

“What is it that you are thinking on?” she asked him. A slight breeze caught at her hair, tugged at the fabric of her skirt.

He leaned heavily against the rail, his hands folded together before him. “This world. The reality of it, and how it differs from my own expectation. How easily it can be shaped, and yet how easily it can be torn apart.” He turned his head to look at her. “You.”

She raised her brows. “Me?”

“Yes.” He pushed himself up so that his palms rested against the rail, looking up and out at the sky that was beginning to grow dim and glimmer with the first of the stars. “You. How easily you look at the problems of the world and see what you must do to confront them.”

Lavellan gave a small laugh. “You give me too much credit. I followed a path set for me.”

“And yet you could have, at any moment, shied from it, or found yourself unable to continue further. It is...remarkable.”

“But it is not enough,” she said softly, for she knew, as she often did, what he had not yet said. He shook his head slowly.

“No. It is not.” He looked then at her, the soft light of evening curving a crescent upon his cheek. “There will always be more to do.”

She regarded him then, standing so near to her; she took in the cut of his coat and the way that his cravat was loosely knotted around his neck. She saw the imperfections upon his face, the freckles and the scars. She thought, in a way, that perhaps his jaw and cheek and the angles of his ears and brow reminded her of a wolf. She knew who this man standing beside her was.

“There will be,” she said then, and she reached out her hand and brushed her fingers over his wrist. “Is it not good, then, that we will try to change this world together?”

She saw his lips part, and she saw the way that he inhaled; he turned his hand and she slipped her hand down until their fingers tangled.

“It has been so very long since I could trust anyone,” he said, and she ran her thumb along the side of his hand.

“Immeasurably long.” She smiled at him, softly, simply. “I know.”

He took their entwined hands, held them up. His fingers slid down her wrist, his thumb upon the bare skin over her pulse.

“How unlikely it is,” he said, and his voice was so very low and soft; he spoke, and she felt her heart jump within her chest, “to meet someone as rare and remarkable as you in this world.”

She felt a blooming of warmth within her chest; she knew, as she had before, what she felt so dearly for this man.

“Tell me what I am to you,” she said, and he smiled that small, private smile that he used only with her. He took her hand, fingers soft upon her skin, and he brought her finger to his lips.

“My equal,” he said, and he brushed his lips over the bare skin of her knuckles.

“My heart,” he said, and he turned her hand over and kissed the palm, and then the inside of her wrist.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he said, and he looked at her as though she was precious and unique in the entire world, and she felt then as though she was loved so very deeply and completely.

She smiled and hooked her fingers into the collar of his coat and she pulled him down to her and she kissed him. Softly, slowly, as though the moment might disappear if she did not.

And she felt his arms slide around her waist, his fingers splayed out across her back, and when the kiss broke he rested his forehead against hers and he did not leave.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” she said, and she stroked her fingers along his cheeks and his jaw, and she saw him smile. “I think I like that very much.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we come to the end. This is the longest single project I’ve ever completed, and there’s something quite emotional for me about coming to the end of it. I want to thank everyone so much for reading; I’ve appreciated every comment and kudos that you’ve given. Your responses are all a large part of why I was able to get through this project.
> 
> I mentioned a few times that there were a lot of influences on this fic, and while it quickly grew past a lot of them, I feel it’s about time for me to list some of them! _Pride & Prejudice_, quite obviously, is one of the big ones, but a great deal of the story was influenced by Elizabeth Gaskell’s North & South and well as (to a lesser extent) _Wives & Daughters_. The inheritance plotline was initially inspired by Charles Dickens’ _Bleak House_. The movie _Belle_ was also an influence on the trajectory of the story. All of these, of course, were inspirations, and Dalish  & Divines quickly turned into...well, the odd regency-industrial-supernatural-political romance that it is. I hope that you enjoyed it!
> 
> I have a few specific thank yous to give. To stargazinglyssa, who sat with me when I first came up with the idea for this fic and who listened to me chatter about plot and character ideas for quite awhile - and also a thank you for watching all of the 1995 Pride & Prejudice with me!
> 
> And a huge thank you to [RedSummerRose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSummerRose/pseuds/RedSummerRose), who’s been my beta for the last six months, and who has given invaluable feedback. Without her, a lot of this fic wouldn’t be what it is. She’s been there to listen to all of my wild ideas, and to let me know what emotional beats worked and which didn’t. I cannot thank her enough for her help and support.
> 
> Again, thank you all for reading. It’s been a pleasure!


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